Game of Shadows
by VivatRex
Summary: [S10 AU] A new Knight of Hell, a new Prophet, one more shot at Armageddon, and another civil war in Heaven. Same song, different verse. But who's playing the tune this time?
1. Quid Ego Video

**Chapter 1 - Quid Ego Video**

* * *

"Listen to me, Dean Winchester... what you're feeling right now is not death, it's _life_. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see, feel what I feel... let's go take a howl at that moon."

**wake up, little hunter**

Dean opened his eyes, and a new world splayed out around him.

He felt like he was seeing for the first time. It was almost beautiful. All the little details he never would've noticed before came to life... the intricate wood grain of his night stand, every fiber of his bed sheets, he saw _everything_. He turned his eyes to the demon leaning over his bed. At first, he was met only with the face of Crowley's vessel, looking down at him almost fondly. His temples throbbed, and he blinked.

And that was when he saw Crowley's true face.

It was indescribable. Red eyes and black skin and teeth and blood and _power_. He didn't know how he could've looked at him for so many years without seeing it. Without seeing what he truly was. Crowley's vessel was humble, but his true form was that of a King. Dean blinked again, and the face he was used to returned. Crowley smiled softly at him, which surprised him.

Dean sat up slowly. His body didn't hurt, though he was still caked in blood and covered in injuries. He felt oddly detached from his own skin. He glanced down at the crook of his forearm, and the Mark glowed with vibrant orange and red energy.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," was the first thing he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. Warmth radiated up his arm from the First Blade, which felt comfortable and right in his hand. He felt calm. He felt at peace. He felt _good_.

"I know," Crowley said gently.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he admitted, lifting his arm and examining it. Energy radiated out from the Blade, rejuvenating him. "I... Metatron killed me." He looked down at the gaping wound in his chest. "I'm not dead."

"You're like me now, Dean... but I think you already knew that."

He'd heard Crowley's words from a distant place when he'd been under... they'd dragged him back. Called to him from the shadowy veil he'd been trapped in. And now he was awake, and alive... and...

**you're perfect, now**

"I'm a demon," he said, and he should've been horrified. Disgusted. He should've taken the Blade in his hand and stabbed it into his stomach. But he didn't feel like that. He didn't feel much at all, actually, aside from the ever-present calm that the Blade provided him.

"You are," Crowley agreed. His smile fell, but the King still looked pleased. He glanced towards the door. "Your brother will be back any minute, once he finds that he can't summon me," he said. "We need to go."

Yes. They did. His thoughts were wild and unbidden, the world around him seeing almost surreal, but one thing he knew with certainty was that they had to leave. He needed to get himself in order and get his questions answered before he saw his brother.

Not to mention... would Sam show mercy for him, if it came down to it?

He was a demon. A demon with the Mark of Cain and the most powerful weapon in the world held tight in his hand. He wasn't positive that his brother would be able to rationalize himself out of killing him... or at least trying to.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He kept his firm grip on the First Blade.

"Someplace safe," Crowley answered cryptically, stepping away from the bed. Dean rose to his feet. He was steady. Crowley reached forward, laid his hand on his shoulder, and in a split second, the two of them were gone.

* * *

"Damn it," Sam cursed under his breath. He'd been sitting in the dungeon for over ten minutes, waiting. He retried the summoning three more times, and still nothing. No answer from Crowley. The bastard was the one who started the whole disaster; he was the one who dragged Dean into accepting the Mark and the taint it left on his soul. He should have to face the consequences of the mess he'd created.

Sam's last fraying strand of composure snapped, and he kicked the bowl of herbs to the other side of the dungeon. It cracked against the wall and shattered into dozens of pieces on the ground. Fuming, he slammed his fist into the concrete wall, not caring that the skin of his knuckles split under the force of his punch.

He leaned his head against the wall, choking back a sob that bubbled out of his throat. Tears burned in his eyes, and he struggled to keep them from falling. He couldn't break into pieces, not now. He had to find a way to bring Dean back. Heaven was still locked, okay, but there had to be a way to get to his brother's soul and put it back where it belonged. There had to be some way to heal his body.

With no way of knowing where Cas and Gadreel were, or if they were even alive, or if they'd actually managed to retake Heaven, the demon king was still his only option. Once he convinced said demon to bring Dean back, he was going to end Crowley permanently. He didn't know how, didn't care how. They'd been foolish enough to let Crowley live last time, and look where it had gotten them.

He was alone and his brother was dead, and if they'd just slit Crowley's throat a year ago after the angels fell, he wouldn't be where he was right now. He tugged his phone out of his pocket and quickly called the demon. Predictably, after three rings, he got Crowley's voicemail.

"Too busy inflicting pain to answer. Leave a message."

"You listen to me, you son of a bitch. My brother is dead because of you, and if you don't get your ass here and fix him I am going to make it my sole mission in life to hunt you down and erase your existence from the face of the Earth, do you understand me? This is your mess, and if you don't clean it up, you _will _pay for it." Sam hung up the phone and stared at it for a few moments.

He flung it against the wall. Its remains joined the tipped over bowl on the gray floor of the dungeon.

* * *

"Hey. Hey buddy, are you okay?"

Gadreel felt someone shaking his shoulder. He groaned deep in his throat as he slowly came back to himself. There was grass pressing against his face, and he smelled earth and water. He was lying on the ground, flat on his stomach. With effort, he pushed himself up. Sunlight blinded him, and he flinched away from it. There was a young man standing over him - a human, he sensed immediately.

His head swam, trying to put together how he got here. "You alright?" the human asked. Gadreel nodded stiffly, putting a hand to his temple.

"Yes. Yes, I am fine." He was quite sure that wasn't entirely true, but he wanted to rid himself of the human's presence so he could think. "Feel free to be on your way."

After a moment of hesitation, the man left, continuing down a dirt path and into what appeared to be a park of some variety. Gadreel looked behind him. A burbling creek flowed over damp, moss covered rocks. He had no idea where he was. Or why he was here, for that matter-

_"Move to the other side of your cell, Castiel, and keep your head down. When they say my name, perhaps I won't just be the one who let the Serpent in, perhaps I will be known as one of the many that gave Heaven a second chance." He locked eyes with Hannah. "Run, sister."_

Gadreel gasped involuntarily, his hand flying to the center of his chest. He was wearing his vessel's typical clothing. He tugged down the collar, trying to find some sign of the Grace-focusing sigil he'd carved into himself in Heaven's prison, but there was nothing but smooth flesh there. How was that possible? He'd sacrificed himself so that Castiel could escape and find the angel tablet. How was it that he was still alive? He distinctly remembered the feeling of his concentrated Grace blowing him apart molecule by molecule.

And yet, he was alive

Not possible.

He looked to the sky. There was only one explanation that he could currently think of, but it was one that was so naively hopeful that he didn't even want to entertain it, for fear of being disappointed.

"Father...?" he couldn't help but whisper.

It wasn't possible. God had left them all when Gadreel allowed the Serpent into the Garden. When he allowed his Father's most prized Creation to be tainted by sin.

But how else could he suddenly live again?

Questions for later. He needed to find out where he was, and then find Castiel immediately. He could only hope that his brother had managed to cut off Metatron from the power of the angel tablet, and that the Winchesters were successful in eliminating him. If not, then he feared all was lost. He stretched his limbs, which felt sore and stiff, and set off down the path, silently thanking whatever force that had brought him back. He was not done redeeming himself. Perhaps he would never be done. He would work for all eternity to repair his home, if that's what it took.

* * *

Castiel sat in front of Metatron's typewriter, narrowing his eyes at the keys. "This controls the Gates?"

"That's what Metatron's assistant told us," Hannah said. "I am unsure of how he operated it... perhaps the power of it was tied to the angel tablet?"

"No, I don't think so." Cas pursed his lips. "Otherwise the Gates would've reopened the moment I destroyed the tablet."

"Do we truly need to open them again? All of us have been made aware of where the portal is," Hannah said.

"You forget the souls of the humans who have died since the fall," he reminded her. "All of them are trapped in the veil, lost, unable to move onto Heaven. We have to free them." _I have to free Dean. _Cas settled his fingers on the keys. "There has to be something... Metatron's assistant, Neil, did he say anything else?"

"No. It doesn't appear that Metatron kept him very well informed."

Cas sighed, but then an idea occurred to him. "Perhaps if I destroy it, it will undo all that he's done?"

"It's worth a try."

Castiel drew his angel blade and positioned it so its point hovered just above the keys of the typewriter. _As Dean would say, here goes nothing._ He drove it downwards, shattering the typewriter into pieces. Blue and white flashed, almost blinding him. He was thrown backwards into the wall as the typewriter let out a blast of energy.

And then something amazing happened.

_He felt them._

"My wings," he gasped as he scrambled to stand. "Hannah, can you-" He still couldn't see, the light blocked out everything, but he could hear his sister let out an exclamation of amazement from nearby.

"Yes. Yes, I can!"

He allowed his wings to unfurl on either side of him as the light faded, as if they'd been there the whole time. He saw Hannah do the same with her own pearly white wings. She grinned at him, practically radiating with happiness. He could hear the other angels calling out on the angel radio in joy.

But then her smile fell, and her expression turned into one of confusion. "Your wings..."

"What is it?" He turned his head to the left and right, taking in the appearance of his wings. However, after looking at them... he felt a knot form in his stomach when he realized that the wings framing his figure were not the ones he'd had before the Fall. The ones he'd had since he was created were enormous, with thick feathers colored blue-black like the midnight sky.

They were smaller, now, and tawny brown. He curled them in on himself on instinct as his feeling of unease grew, but they did not make him feel safe like the shield of his old wings had. At closer inspection, they appeared to be molting, almost. Many places were missing feathers, and the ones that remained appeared lifeless.

It made sense, he supposed. An angel's wings were a representation of his Grace. He had stolen, poisoned Grace, so his wings were not his, but Theo's... and they were marked by what he had done to the other angel.

He gulped. "It seems they've changed," he said quietly, reluctant to say more on the subject. He was almost embarrassed. Vain as it was, he thought that his wings had truly been a thing of beauty before the Fall. But now...

Hannah seemed to be somewhere between horrified and uncomfortable. After a long moment of silence, the female angel spoke again.

"Did you... is it over? Are the Gates open as well?" Hannah asked, glancing around as she rose to her feet.

"I believe so." He put a hand on the surface of the desk. He felt the shaking of Paradise around him. "Millions of souls, all coming in. They'll need to be guided." He flicked his eyes to Hannah. "The Reapers, can you rally them to help? The ones that are left?"

Somehow, Hannah had seamlessly slipped into the role of his second-in-command again, in spite of how quickly she'd lost faith in him just a few days prior. It was a shame that it took Gadreel's life to renew her confidence in him.

Gadreel. His brother who would've rather died than gone back to the prison he was trapped in for thousands of years. Trapped in and tortured in, broken apart and put back together.

He would mourn later. Right now, he had a priority. And that was a particular soul that he knew was currently struggling its way toward the Paradise it had so long deserved.

"Yes. I'll contact them on the angel radio," she said, setting her fingertips on the top of the radio that Cas had used to reveal Metatron's true intentions to the Heavenly Host.

Cas nodded stiffly. "Good. Thank you. I must go."

"Go? But commander-"

"Hannah, please," he said, almost desperately. "Never call me that again. I'm not your commander. I'm not your leader. I'm..." He pursed his lips. "I'm just Castiel, and right now, my friend needs me."

"Dean Winchester, again?" Hannah asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice. Cas didn't respond. "It always is, isn't it?"

"You don't understand," he said. "I owe him everything. I will never be done repaying him for what he's done for me. Thanks to Metatron, he's dead... I have to do what I can for him."

Hannah's expression softened somewhat, and then she asked, "Was he right, Castiel?"

"What do you mean?" He furrowed his brow.

"Did you do all of this for him? To protect him?"

"Nothing is ever that simple, sister." _But isn't it, though? Hasn't it always been about protecting him since the very start? _"I... I'll return when I can. I want to help rebuild things. I want to fix our home."

"Then why not stay?"

"Because..." He licked his lips, unsure of the proper words to say. "Because my family needs me."

With a flutter of his wings (and oh, did it feel good to fly again, even with his stolen wings), Cas disappeared. He allowed himself to meld with the torrent of souls pouring into Heaven. He searched for the mark of his Grace - his old Grace, the healthy and vibrant and _beautiful_ Grace, not the sad, poisoned excuse that he had now. He knew Dean's soul better than anything, and he knew that he would recognize it instantly.

He searched. And searched. And searched.

Nothing.

This wasn't making any sense. Dean couldn't have gone to Hell, could he? He was the Righteous Man. The Heavenly Vessel. He was... damn it, he was _Dean Winchester!_ Few humans had sacrificed more for the good of the world than he had. If anyone deserved Heaven, it was him.

However, if there was one thing that he'd learned during his time on Earth and his time as a human, it was that people rarely got what they deserved. And Dean had been disturbingly close to Crowley of late. The demon had smuggled Bobby's soul down to Hell instead of allowing it to move onto Heaven. Who's to say that he wouldn't do the same thing to Dean? Castiel felt rage boiling inside of him.

If he couldn't find a way to bring Dean back, he would at the very least find a way to get him the paradise that he'd fought his entire life to earn.

He would have to go to harrow Hell again. And no one would stop him from retrieving Dean's soul - not even the King himself.

It took a strong burst of Grace to get himself from Heaven and into Hell, and when he arrived in Perdition, he felt drained. He'd flown to the endless queue that Crowley had set up after he took over Hades. The fallen human souls in line shuffled aimlessly onward, striving for the end only to be put back where they started. For all he hated Crowley, he could at the very least admire how he redid Hell. The last time he'd gone to Hell for Dean's soul, it had been blood and razors and death, screaming and crying and misery.

Yes, it was a marked improvement.

He began pacing up the line, looking for Dean. He would be toward the back of the line, as he'd only died recently. He walked for an indeterminable amount of time, scanning each forlorn face. None of them noticed him. He wasn't sure how aware they were, but he called for Dean anyway, hoping to get some kind of response farther up the line.

No such luck. Strauss's "The Blue Danube" reverberated though the halls, footsteps echoed, but no one returned his call. He stretched out his awareness as far as he could, searching for Dean, for the bright aura of his soul.

Nothing.

Maybe Crowley had him hidden away? Cas felt anger pulsing in his veins. He would go to Crowley, then. He would find the demon, reach a hand into his chest, and squeeze his twisted red-black essence until he told him where Dean's soul was. And then he would make him pay.

A flutter of his new wings, and he was gone.

* * *

Not long after the Angel of Thursday left, a joyous voice rang out In Hell, reaching the ears of all of the damned: _"Dean Winchester is saved."_


	2. And This is What You're Gonna Become

**Chapter 2 - And This is What You're Gonna Become**

* * *

Dean looked better, better now that he was in fresh clothes that were clean of blood. His wounds had already healed themselves. Crowley had managed to get him into the shower. He was surprisingly malleable now, actually. Quiet and cooperative, so long as he didn't try to take the Blade from him. He was dressed in a white button down and neatly pressed black slacks, tapping his finger on the arm rest of Crowley's favorite leather sofa.

His own little killing machine, acting perfectly docile... albeit a bit confused.

He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to say, but as he watched this new creature he'd helped bring into creation - unintentionally - he couldn't really form the words. _How does it feel, Dean? _he wanted to ask. _Do you feel it, the darkness? Is it swallowing you, eating you up? Are you hungry for blood? Do you need it on your hands like I need it in my veins?_

The fact was, Crowley didn't know what he was dealing with. He didn't know what Dean was, now. He was thrilled, if he was being honest with himself. Thrilled that Dean wasn't dead, that he was a demon... but not just any demon. A different breed, a _superior_ breed. No Hell torture for Dean Winchester, oh no, not this time. It was the power and draw of the Mark of Cain that had twisted his soul.

He'd tried with Dean, for the past year. Really tried for... for _friendship_. Although he was loathe to admit it to himself, the past year had opened his eyes to many things, the biggest of which being the fact that he was alone. Kingdom or not, he had no one. His demonic subjects didn't make good company, and he'd only just recently regained that particular aspect of his life. No friends, no family... no love.

_Love_. The bane of his existence since his almost-curing. That drive, that desire, it had made him weak. He wasn't afraid to acknowledge that. He wasn't the king he used to be, because he wasn't the demon he used to be. Not even a full demon, really. Or at least that's how it was beginning to feel. Somewhere along the lines, he ended up caring about the Winchesters. Both Dean and Sam, though Sam had made it abundantly clear - even after seeing him in his weakest moment before that final injection - that he wanted none of it. He wanted him dead, and that was the end of it.

Dean, however... Dean had been different. After his falling out with Sam, all that self-hatred and insecurity all combined together, just enough that Dean was willing to work with him. Willing to give him a _chance_. They were a good team, in Crowley's opinion, and he'd enjoyed watching Dean's progress since he received the Mark of Cain. Slightly concerned, but pleased all the same. His own private Hellhound. He could do without the attitude, but Dean was turning into a very handy tool. Just look at what he did to Abaddon.

He'd been using Dean - he wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was still a demon, after all, and shot up with humanity or not, agendas and plots were part of his modus operandi. But that didn't mean that he didn't care, because he _did_. Damn it, but he did. He cared about that idiotic, serial-killing oaf and his moose of a brother, a fondness that he was quite sure was some kind of insane imprinting, as they were the first people he'd seen after having his humanity partially restored.

And maybe there was a bit of jealousy and a bit of hope mixed in, as well. Because the Winchesters, really, weren't they the poster boys for the All You Need is Love mentality? That night, in the church, watching them through a sheen of tears... he saw_ love_. No, that wasn't quite right - he didn't see it, so much as he really _noticed_ it for the very first time, and he wanted it. He wanted someone to hold him, someone to save him when he felt that he wasn't worth saving.

A part of him thought he could find that kind of love with the Winchesters. Find family.

It wasn't often he was wrong, but this time, he'd been mistaken. The hunters' racism towards demonkind was too strong for them to see him as anything more than his species. They branded the word evil on his forehead, and he would never be able to wash it off. Not even with Dean, because with how things were, Dean would do anything to try to win back his brother's approval - and what did Sam want, hmm? The King of Hell run through with the First Blade.

Unacceptable. He'd begun to lose hope that he would ever find someone that would care for him, truly care for him.

Until Dean summoned him... and he smelled sulfur. Strong and pungent. It wasn't coming from him, as he disliked the scent and covered it with cologne. No, it was sharp and it could only be coming from one place: Dean. The rejected burger was the final straw after that. The story of how Cain came to become a demon played over and over in his head, and the hope restored itself.

Maybe miracles did come true. Just maybe.

His friend - or the closest he had to one - becoming like him. Understanding why he did everything he that he'd done. Understanding that as a demon, it was barely a choice to be evil. It was a drive, a hunger, an empty, freezing, sucking void in your stomach that clawed at you and _hurt_ and could only be quenched through violence and destruction. An ever-growing black hole in your chest, eating up everything but the most primal feelings.

He'd screamed out (with his real voice, of course, not the voice of his vessel) to the masses in Hell when he'd brought Dean down. He wanted his kingdom to know that he'd gotten the pride and joy of the human race and turned him into one of _them_. He wanted them to acknowledge their new member.

_Do you see what I see, Dean? It isn't easy, being a demon... but it is freeing. You were always so concerned with free will, weren't you?_

So many questions to ask. So many things he could teach Dean. But how to start? He sipped at his drink - he'd offered Dean one, but he'd quietly declined - and contemplated the hunter-turned-demon.

"What do you want, Dean?" came out of his mouth. He hadn't really intended to say anything, but it was as good a way to start as any.

Dean's eyes flicked up to meet his. They were back to candy-apple green for the time being. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I say. That is... what would make you happy right now?" Crowley clarified.

"Why do you care?"

"That's not how it works, here. I ask, you answer."

Dean dropped his eyes, his brow furrowing. His hand tightened on the Blade. He hadn't let it out of his sight since Crowley had brought him to his office in Hell. He thought it would be the best place for him, for the time being. Castiel was no doubt searching everywhere for his poor dead boytoy's soul, and he didn't want to risk hanging around at his home on Earth while the angel was ripping apart Heaven, Hell, and Earth alike for Dean.

It was like bringing the new baby home... only in this case, the baby was the Righteous Man who was now damned and home was Hell.

Dean seemed like he was in shock, if his subdued manner was any indication. Crowley cleared his throat. "The Blade... you want to use it, don't you?"

A lift of his head, straightening of his shoulders. Hands tightening on that donkey jawbone once again. "I..." He swallowed. "Yes." His eyes flashed black for a brief moment. "I do. I... I really do."

"Good, good. This is part of being a demon, Dean. You don't have to deny yourself any longer. You're _free_." Crowley finished off his glass of Craig, setting it on the coffee table. "If you want, I can give you an opportunity to get some quality time with that Precious of yours... if you're willing."

Dean narrowed his eyes (back to green) at Crowley. "You mean you want me to be your bitch?"

"Oh Squirrel... if I wanted you to be my bitch, you'd know it by now." He smiled at the other demon. "This is just a suggestion... a mutually beneficial one. I happen to have a bit of business up top. Group of Abaddon supporters who aren't happy that you slaughtered their leader. Boring and predictable as they are, they're trying to find a way to take me down. Usually I'd send some of my grunts to make quick work of them, but... what say we have ourselves a little outing, hmm? Get you used to your new species?"

"How many are we talking?"

"Looks like about thirty, if the reports are correct."

Dean was silent for a moment. "Did you plan this? Changing me?"

He suppressed a sigh. Back to questions. "No. I can promise you that much, Dean. This was never my plan. I never exactly had good intentions for you, but I didn't mean for this to happen. Not that I'm necessarily disappointed that it's come to pass..."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"I told you, I never lied to you. Not once. I think that you would know if I had, wouldn't you?" Crowley clasped his hands over his knee. "Can't scam a scam artist, after all." _We can both lie to ourselves, but we can't lie to each other. Not well, anyway._

Another pause, then Dean asked, "So where's the nest?"

Crowley smiled.

* * *

"Cas... Castiel, please... I - I need you. I know Heaven's probably insane right now, and I know you've got a lot on your plate, but... please... _please_, Cas... I need you to help him. I have to try to fix things. He'd do the same for me... for both of us."

Hands clasped and head bowed, Sam prayed to the only higher being that had actually ever seemed to give a damn about them. His summoning of Crowley continued to fail, the demon hadn't returned his calls, and Sam didn't know who else to go to. He knew he would have to wait for Cas to call him or get to the bunker - he was missing the days where the angel could just appear - but he had to do something. He couldn't just sit here with his brother's dead body in the next room over. Asking for angelic assistance was the only option he had left.

He didn't want to ask any more of Cas, though. Cas, with his draining Grace acting as a ticking time bomb inside of him. Restoring Dean to life, if he was even capable of it, could dramatically shorten Cas's lifespan. It might even kill him. But if Hell couldn't save his brother, maybe Heaven could. He had to do whatever was necessary to get Dean back.

What a hypocrite he was. He was always the one championing 'the agreement' - if one of them dies, leave it. Leave it, because whatever you do to bring them back will only make things infinitely worse. He'd looked his own brother in the eyes and told him that he wouldn't try to save him. That he wouldn't even _want_ to. A hypocrite and a liar, then.

_Why did I ever think that I could do this without you?_

"Damn it..." He took another sip of his whiskey, trying to focus on the sensation of it burning down his throat. He was in the strategy room, unable to convince himself to go to Dean's room and sit by his side. Because although the corpse in there looked like his brother, it wasn't. Dean was long gone. He was barely holding it together at the moment, and seeing his brother's cold, pale skin, overcome by the veil of death... no amount of booze was going to fix that.

The waiting was going to kill him, if Cas came at all. He could've been fighting Metatron at that very moment, though he suspected the Scribe was already dead. Hopefully Cas and Gadreel were able to destroy the tablet, and there was nothing stopping them from ending Metatron... if Cas knew what the other angel had done to Dean, then Sam was sure that Metatron was probably little more than a burn mark on the ground, now. Either way, Heaven was bound to be in chaos.

But... he did know another angel, didn't he? Arguably more intimately than Cas, though sharing his anatomy with Gadreel had been anything but consensual... and Gadreel had restored people to life before. He'd brought both Cas and Charlie back. Would he be willing to help again? He wasn't sure where he stood with Gadreel. The son of a bitch had killed Kevin. Innocent, unarmed, barely more than a kid _Kevin_. It may have been on Metatron's orders, but Gadreel had still made the decision to follow through. The angel regretted what he'd done, and he was trying to fix things, but still... some things were unforgivable.

However, right now, he found himself in a much more forgiving mood than usual. He would do just about anything, if it meant getting his brother back.

He bowed his head again.

"Gadreel... I don't know if you have your ears on, but... if you can, I need your help. Dean's... he's dead. I know you can bring people back. Dean's probably the last person you want to help, but I'm begging you... if you can help, I'll... I mean, it's water under the bridge, okay? Just please, I... God, I'm bad at this..."

"Sam."

Sam jumped halfway out of his chair with a sharp intake of breath. Cas was standing directly in front of him, looking grave. "Cas, how the hell... your wings?"

Cas nodded. "When the Gates reopened, our wings were all restored. I can fly again."

"That's... so you did it?"

"Metatron is in Heaven's prison, the angel tablet is broken, and the Gates are open once again. Heaven is restored. As restored as it can be." Cas didn't seem pleased by that knowledge. "Take me to Dean."

"Wait, back up. Metatron's in prison? You didn't kill him?"

Cas lowered his eyes. "There has been enough death today. Also... it will do you no good to pray to Gadreel." A pained expression crossed the angel's face. "He is dead. He sacrificed himself so that I would be able to find the tablet and stop Metatron."

"Gadreel's dead?" He didn't know how to feel about that. There was no lost love between them, that went without saying, but he had shared a body with the angel for months... his heart sunk lower at the thought of his demise. He wanted Metatron dead... God, did he want him dead... but Cas was right. There'd been enough death in the past few weeks to last a life time.

Not to mention, being imprisoned for the rest of eternity... that was a punishment worse than death, and no less than Metatron deserved.

"Yes, but now's not the time for mourning. Something has gone wrong with Dean's soul. I need to see him."

"Gone wrong? What do you mean, _gone wrong_?"

"I can't find it. Not in Heaven, not in Hell," Cas told him as Sam stood up. "Either his soul has not left his body, meaning that he's still alive, or someone is hiding his soul."

"Crowley," Sam growled immediately. "The bastard, I knew-"

"Enough, Sam, there's no time. Where is he?"

"He's in his room." Together, hunter and angel made their way to Dean's room, which was in between Sam and Kevin's. Kevin's, which they'd avoided like the plague since the prophet had died. They'd only gone in once, and that was to retrieve his things to give to Linda when she had left with her son's ghost. Sam opened the door, slipping into the darkened room, eyes going to the bed-

Dean wasn't there.

The bed was rumpled from where Sam had laid him down, but his brother was nowhere to be seen. "What the hell?"

Cas froze in the threshold. "Where's his body?"

"I - I don't know, I left him here a few hours ago..."

"Someone must've taken him," Cas surmised quickly. "But who? And why?"

"Don't forget how. Almost no one knows about the bunker. Just you, me, Dean, Charlie, Gadreel and..." He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the realization hit him. "And Crowley."

Cas's eyes darkened. "Have you tried summoning him?"

"Yeah. No answer. I don't know how he managed to ignore it." Sam felt rage bubbling inside of his chest, the same rising tide that he'd fought long and hard to learn how to control. But tonight? Fuck control. He kicked the foot of Dean's bed so hard that it left a large dent in the wood. Chips fell to the ground. He was breathing heavily. "We have to find him. And I don't care if I have to skin Crowley alive, I'm going to find out what he did to my brother."

"I know all of Crowley's safehouses on Earth. I will find him." Cas's inhumanly blue eyes were glowing, and he knew he wasn't the only one enraged by this. Crowley had pretended to be on their side, played the benevolent ally so well, but Sam had known. He'd _known_. Humanity or not, feelings or not, Crowley was Crowley, and Crowley was always out for himself. God only knew what he'd done with Dean.

_I should've killed him when I had the chance! What the hell was I thinking? _It would've been so easy to finish off Crowley when Abaddon had him trapped. One jab of Ruby's knife, no more King of Hell... but no, he'd let him live. And now Dean was not only dead, but dead and not in Heaven, where he deserved to be. Fuck. _Fuck._

"Hello?" Sam was jarred from his thoughts by the sound of a voice calling out in the foyer. "Sam? Dean? Castiel?"

Sam and Cas's expressions both simultaneously turned into looks of confusion. "That can't be..." Cas trailed off. He disappeared. Sam suppressed an eye roll. Okay, maybe he didn't miss Cas's flight capabilities that much.

Sam went to the foyer. Once he was there, he saw Cas standing by the table with his back to him... and at the foot of the staircase, looking very much alive, was Gadreel.


	3. No Gods, No Masters

**Chapter 3 - No Gods, No Masters**

* * *

"Cas told me you were dead," Sam said, watching Gadreel intently. The angel flexed his hands, glancing between the two of them.

"I should be, yes. But I'm not. Somehow, I am alive." He seemed awed by his own existence. "I am sorry to hear of what happened to Dean. If you take me to him, I can see what I can do to help him."

"Gadreel, I watched you die less than a day ago. There's no way you could've survived what you did to yourself. What happened?" Cas asked, staring at his brother.

"I don't know. After I activated the sigil on my chest and destroyed myself, I... I woke up alongside a river in Washington DC, unharmed." Gadreel shook his head. "I can't make any sense of it."

Cas's brow furrowed. "You were resurrected...?"

"Alright, I know we should probably look into this more, but right now, we've got bigger problems: Dean's body's gone, and we need to find Crowley. You've helped us so far, are you willing to stick with us?" Sam didn't want to completely brush over Gadreel's sudden return to life, especially if whoever brought him back had less than good intentions, but his mind was completely one-track at the moment. _Where. Is. Dean._

A large part of him raged against the idea of continuing to work with Gadreel, but the more logical part of him knew very well how short on allies they were. Not to mention, with Cas's Grace draining away, it would be good to have an angel around who was at full power so Cas didn't have to expend as much of his dwindling energy. God only knew what would happen to Cas as his Grace continued to fade.

Gadreel's jaw formed a hard line, and he nodded stiffly. "I am at your disposal. Do you believe the demon took your brother?"

"That's the best we can figure. Now we just have to find him," Sam said.

"I know the location of most of Crowley's safe houses from my time working with him. I will search for him-"

"Castiel, it would not do for you to expend more of your Grace than you already have in the past several days," Gadreel cut across the other angel. "Give me the locations, and I will look for him."

Castiel drew himself up to his full height. "I am fine, Gadreel. But if it worries you, I can search half, and you can search the other."

Gadreel still didn't look pleased, but he didn't argue with Cas further about it. "Where should I look?"

"There is a mansion in Bootback, Kansas, a private prison on the outskirts of Minneapolis in Minnesota, and an abandoned steel factory in Hastings, Nebraska. Check them all. I will go to the others."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" Sam asked, but before he even finished his question, both of the angels disappeared, leaving him alone.

* * *

It was a haze... a giddy haze. Better than any drug he'd ever sampled, and over his life, he'd tried more than a few. Better than booze, better than sex. It was incomparable. He felt every beat of the heart he no longer needed as if it was an earthquake. His whole body vibrated with energy, with power and strength, more than he'd ever experienced before. His lips twitched, and he let out a sound that was somewhere between a pleased growl and a laugh.

His body was screaming for more, but there was no one left alive in the facility. No one except for himself and Crowley.

He gripped the First Blade tightly in his hand. It no longer felt like a weapon... no, it was an extension of him. Part of him, just like the Mark. The Mark, which glowed on his arm, throbbed and burned, but in the best way possible.

There was blood everywhere. Caked on his clothes and hands, matted into his hair, splattered on his face. He licked his lips and tasted iron.

"Such a pity. I got you cleaned up just so you could go out and ruin your new clothes... blood stains are a veritable bitch to get out of white, you know."

He was covered in blood again, yes, but this time, none of it was his own. Dean smirked, dragging his sleeve across his face. "Clothes aren't clothes 'till they've got a few stains on 'em," he said lowly. Crowley snorted behind him.

"I think you're going to be a very quirky demon, Dean."

Demon. That was going to take some getting used to, being a demon. A forced species change... not something he ever really expected to go through after he was pulled out of Hell. It was funny that all those years in the Pit, that had been his greatest fear. The only thing that terrified him more than Alastair's razor, or the faces of his victims once he began working the rack himself, was the idea of becoming a demon. Becoming a monster, the very thing that went bump in the night that he'd spent his entire life hunting.

But really... it wasn't so bad at all. Humanity had been a wall for him, he realized. A wall between him and the true potential that the Mark and the Blade offered him. The salvation of battle had been calling to him for so long... and now he could finally give in without remorse. He didn't feel pain, anymore. No anxiety or guilt... most of his life, he'd been miserable. His life was hard and he'd barely been able to deal with all of the crap that had been thrown his way. He'd lost everything over and over again. It had been agony and grief on repeat since age four.

But now... all the bad was gone. He just didn't feel it anymore. What he did feel was really fucking _good_. And he wanted more.

"There are more nests like this, aren't there?" Dean asked, turning to Crowley. Crowley was in the process of mopping blood off of his own face with a monogrammed handkerchief. His eyes flicked up to meet Dean's. The other demon had joined in the fray as well, but he hadn't needed to do much. Dean had probably handled three fourths of the demons himself.

"There's an unfortunately large amount, yes."

"Good." Dean cracked his neck. "They're not gonna be a problem for you for much longer."

"Dean Winchester, I do believe you just confessed to wanting to help me..."

"I didn't say that," Dean said roughly. "Look, I don't know what the hell you want out of all this-"

"A partnership, Dean. A proper, two-way, beneficial relationship. You want to kill. I want things killed. I'm going to go out on an absolute limb of reasoning and say that you want power... you're already packing quite a punch, but you're lacking in the finesse department. I can help you. You can help me. Together? Well, together, we can accomplish anything, I think."

Dean weighed his options. Working with Crowley was serving Crowley, whether he liked it or not. Crowley was the King of the Demons... and now he was a demon. It was only logical that he was expected to fall into service. Then again, Crowley was one of the strongest demons out there. If anyone could teach him the ins and outs of being damned, it was him.

"Unless," Crowley said after his long silence. "Unless of course you'd like to return to your brother. I won't stop you. Though I admit, I don't think he'll be pleased with your new species. But..." The demon shrugged, sheathing his angel blade. "I've been surprised before."

Go back to Sam...? Huh. He hadn't actually thought of him once since Crowley had spirited him away from the bunker. Actually, it was probably the longest he'd gone in his entire life without thinking about his little brother. Was that why he felt so... _free_? Because for once in his life, every breath and every thought wasn't dedicated to Sam? It always revolved around Sam, didn't it? Keeping him safe. Keeping him _good_. Keeping him happy. Barely got a goddamn thank you in over thirty years, but he did it. He kept Sam breathing no matter the cost. Even if it meant letting an angel run around in his brother.

And did he even get a thanks for it? Ha. No, his brother condemned him when all he was trying to do was keep the fucking kid upright. Sam Winchester, walking disaster extraordinaire. Dean was always pulling him off the edge of the cliff. It was his whole life. _Sam_ was his _whole life_... but right now, it didn't feel like that. He didn't have any desire to go to Sam and tell him he was still alive. No desire to return to the bunker and stay with his brother.

For the first time in forever, the words, "It'll be okay, Sammy," weren't ready and poised to leave his mouth.

Sam would not be happy that he was a demon. The exact opposite, he was sure. He would try to fix him, try to cure him... _save_ him. Sam wouldn't understand that he didn't need saving. He was better, now. Better than he'd ever been. He wasn't numbed, wasn't repressing anything - there was nothing to repress because he felt... well, he felt nothing.

_Nothing bad, anyway,_ he thought to himself as he glanced down at the First Blade.

**more dean more not enough ****_more_**

The voice of the Blade (or the Mark?) in his mind didn't terrify him anymore, not like it used to. Althought it was a strange thing to come to terms with... at the moment, now that he was changed, he found that he really just didn't care. About anything. Anything except for the Blade in his hand, which was screaming for more blood. He didn't care about Sam, didn't care about Cas, didn't care about Heaven or Hell... he just _didn't._

Apathy. It was a beautiful thing, it really was.

"...I can't go back to the bunker," he said at length, deciding not to elaborate further. He didn't have any desire to talk about Sam with Crowley, or explain his reasons for not returning. "If you want me to kill for you, I will. But I'm not your employee, you hear me?" He met the demon king's eyes, and he could feel his own flashing black. He needed to learn how to control that particular side effect of his demonhood.

"Loud and clear, my demonic friend. Loud and clear. We could do a lot for each other, you and I... and I won't try to control you, Dean. I understand you better than you think." The other demon spread out his arms on either side of him. "This is what it means to be a demon. Freedom and free will at its absolute finest. No gods, no masters."

"Except for you, right?"

"Not for you, Dean. Not for you." Crowley lifted his chin, giving him a scrutinizing look. "We both know full-well you're stronger than I am. I have no control over you."

"But you wish that you did."

"Oh no. I don't want to stifle you. I always like it when you surprise me."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Listen, we gonna stand here and bullshit all day, or are we gonna clean up this fucking mess?"

Crowley looked amused. "You're not a hunter anymore, you know. Or rather, not a human hunter with limited resources. King of Hell, remember?" He smirked. "I'll call my boys, and they'll tidy up for us. In the mean time... I think we've a few things to discuss. How you can make yourself useful in all sorts of fun ways."

Dean glanced away from the King, and then nodded stiffly. There was a lot of work to be done. Abaddon had a good amount of supporters.

**and we will be ready for them**

* * *

_"Take the summer for yourself, Chaplain. You need time."_

"Son of a bitch doesn't have a clue what I need," Ronnie muttered between gritted teeth. She started her Honda, pulling it out of the parking garage of the Navy Yard. She gunned it once she was on the road. She didn't feel like following the rules, today. She didn't know what she felt like - whatever it was, it wasn't anything good.

She wasn't the kind of woman that often let her temper get the best of her, but her calm was fraying rather quickly. Ever since she'd arrived back in the States, she felt as though she was poised on the edge of a cliff, and the smallest breeze might blow her off. _Time_ was the last thing she needed. Sitting around at home, how would that benefit her? Why would she want to be alone with her thoughts after what happened?

Lightning pulsed across the sky. A storm was coming. Looked like a bad one, too.

She wanted to be back in the field. Back where she belonged. But no, Lieutenant Grady knew best! She watched a Humvee full of her closest friends go up thanks to some twenty year old land mine, and she obviously needed to be shipped back home and stuck with nothing to do but stew for three months. Absolutely brilliant. She'd be better in no time.

Mom and Dad would be happy, with their precious little girl out of the line of fire for a few months. Matt would be pleased, too, especially now that he was living in DC and would be able to see her.

She wanted to see Matt, too, but she didn't just have one family; the Navy was her family as well, and the thought of leaving it all behind for the length of her stupid 'grief leave' made her want to punch Grady in his too compassionate, too caring face.

Rain began falling in sheets against the windows of the car. It became difficult to see.

They could've at least assigned her to Bethesda again. The naval hospital was always short on help. Why did they have to take her off of duty completely? They could've done plenty of things with her in the States. They always needed more hands on deck in the Chaplain Core. Hell, they could've put her on instructor duty down in Newport or Fort Jackson. Literally, anything but _grief leave_.

_Mandatory_ grief leave. Mandatory being the key word.

There was an enormous crash of thunder, and Ronnie wished she could cover her ears. Her windshield wipers waved in front of her, doing little against the onslaught of rain. Lightning crackled overhead, but she wasn't particularly worried. Wasn't a car supposedly the safest place to be during a lightning storm?

Suddenly, Ronnie's entire car was illuminated with brilliant white light. She felt something hit her hard in the chest, and her entire body was suddenly swept away by excruciating pain. She screamed, and she had the sense to jam her foot down on the brake. The tires skidded loudly. She couldn't see anything. Her hearing went out and there was nothing but a strange buzzing in her ear. She knew she was still screaming, she could feel the vibration in her throat. It seemed as though her nerves were being flayed alive.

Suddenly, everything turned to black. Black nothingness and numb pulsing. Then, she began to see something... an image... images... people...

_"Well?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. He already knew by the expressions on Gadreel and Castiel's faces that they weren't there bearing good news._

_"I found nothing. The mansion, factory, and prison were all deserted," Gadreel informed him. "There was no sign of the demon."_

_Cas braced himself on the large table in the strategy room, taking a deep breath. He looked pale, and he was shaking badly._

_"Castiel?" Sam asked worriedly. The angel looked like he was about to fall over._

_"I... I am fine," he said, though his voice argued against his statement. "I checked all of Crowley's more recent haunts. He has a mansion in Phoenix that looks lived in - he was there recently. All of his guards and minions were on sight, but there was no sign of Crowley or Dean."_

_"What did you do to his goons?" Sam inquired._

_Cas's eyes flicked up to meet his, seeming unnaturally blue for a few moments. "I killed them." The blood splattered on the side of the angel's trench coat suddenly made sense. Cas seemed weakened, though... had he been hurt?_

_"Cas, you look like you're about to fall over."_

_"It's... my Grace," he admitted. "I exerted a lot in the past few days. It's draining faster than I originally anticipated."_

_"You need to rest, brother," Gadreel ventured, but Cas shook his head vigorously._

_"No," he said harshly. "I'm not resting until I find Dean and put his soul where it belongs. If Crowley has laid so much as a finger on him, I will burn the life out of him." He clenched his hands into fists._

_"We'll find him," Sam stated. "We will... we have to."_


	4. The Father of Murder

**Chapter 4 - The Father of Murder**

* * *

"There's got to be some kind of tracking spell we could use," Sam said, flipping through one of the thick, dusty tomes in the Men of Letters library. "We just have to find it."

"Theoretically, yes, a tracking spell could work - but we don't have Crowley's true name," Castiel said, resting his head in his hands. His skull was throbbing like mad, his throat was dry and scratchy, and his whole body felt weak and shaky. The effort of flying between Crowley's safe houses, and then smiting all of the demons in his current one, had drained him significantly.

_You only have so much Grace left. If you keep expending it like this, you'll die before you can save Dean._

"True name?" Sam echoed.

"Each demon earns a true name in Hell, given to them by their torturer. Some of them, the more powerful ones, usually, use their name. Alastair, Azazel, Lilith - but lower level demons choose to keep theirs hidden. It makes them more difficult to summon and harder to track. The only reason we're able to summon Crowley properly is because as he still holds the position of King of the Crossroads along with being the King of Hell, he has a specific ritual tied to him. However, that still means that we can't track him," Cas explained. "I know for a fact that Crowley is not Crowley's true demon name."

"How do you know that?" Gadreel asked, furrowing his brow.

"Because he told me," Cas answered shortly. His time working with Crowley was not something he ever felt particularly motivated to talk about. "Though I pressed him, he wouldn't tell me his true name. My social skills were rather stunted at the time, and I was significantly less persuasive than I am now."

"How the hell are we supposed to find him, then?" Sam asked, and he could see that the hunter's patience was wearing thin. He wanted to find his brother, to either bring him back or at the least put him to rest.

"Maybe..." Cas thought for a moment. "There's a chance that we are overestimating Crowley's involvement in this."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"The Mark of Cain... there are stories, I... it could have something to do with the disappearance of Dean's body." He wanted to be able to blame all of what had happened on Crowley. He wanted the demon to have taken Dean's body for some kind of nefarious purpose, but there were other factors at play, here, and they couldn't be ignored. Dean possessed the Mark of Cain, and it was possible that it could have an effect on his body after death. He was horrified to even consider it, but he couldn't disregard the possibility...

"Stories?" Gadreel echoed. "Brother, you were there, were you not? You were privy to what transpired between Cain and Abel firsthand."

Cas gulped, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. Yes, he was there. Did he remember? Not particularly. There were many, many things that he didn't remember any longer. Between his memory loss after releasing the Leviathan, the madness of the Cage, and finally Naomi's tampering in his mind, much of his life had been lost in darkness. No matter how hard he searched for it, he was met with nothing but blank space.

"My mind is not as sound as I wish it was," he admitted reluctantly. "Many of my memories have been lost, and I have never been able to regain them... but that doesn't matter now. What matters is that Cain became a demon very quickly after his death, from what I understand. It almost seemed as though he didn't go through the typical torture in Hell."

Sam stared at him, horror in his eyes. "Cas... you're not saying what I think you're saying..."

"I hope I'm wrong," Cas said. _More than anything, really. _"But we can't ignore the possibility that Dean wasn't taken from the bunker, but that he left off of his own accord... that he left because he's a... a demon." The word felt dirty on his tongue. How wrong would it be, for the Righteous Man to be damned, to become a demon? To be the successor of the Father of Murder himself? To go to Hell, to be saved, only to eventually become a monster anyway?

It wasn't fair. Not even close. Sam and Dean, who had gone through so much and saved so many lives, had continuously suffered and sacrificed for the greater good, only to be destroyed over and over again. No one deserved salvation more than Dean Winchester.

And yet, here he was, faced with the idea that Dean could be a demon. One of the things he'd spent his life hunting. Something horrible, dark, and sinful.

"Dean could be a demon?" Sam asked, incredulous. "How is that even possible? You have to go to Hell for decades to become a demon!"

"Not always," Cas said. "The Mark... its very presence corrupts and taints the wearer. As soon as he touched the First Blade, he was lost." Cas sighed. "I was worried that something like this may happen."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "Dean can't be a demon. He can't. He's..." Sam seemed at a loss for words. Gadreel grimaced.

"If this is true, and Dean has changed, what is our next step?"

"We go to the source," Cas said. "Cain."

"We... we find Cain?" Sam asked. "How?"

"I don't know." Cas rose from his chair. "He's a very powerful demon. Any area he stayed in would have strong demonic omens as a side effect of his presence. Gadreel and I can search for him..."

"No. I'm not letting you guys leave me behind while you do all of the heavy lifting again," Sam said quickly, standing up as well.

"Sam, you are a human. You need sleep - which I know for a fact you haven't gotten any in days. Once you've eaten, slept, and showered, search the Letters library for either Crowley's true name or ways to track Cain. They are the only two beings right now who might have any answers for us."

"Don't talk to me about rest, Cas. You look like you're about to fall over."

"I will be fine."

"No matter how many times you say that, I'm not going to believe you."

"Sam is right, Castiel-" Gadreel began, but Cas cut him off.

"My Grace is going to give out eventually anyway. If I can use what little I have left to help Dean, than that's what I will do. It's my decision." He looked at Gadreel. "Are you ready?"

Gadreel pursed his lips, then nodded. "Whenever you are, brother."

"I will call you if we discover anything," Cas said to Sam. Sam nodded, though he could tell the Winchester was furious at being left behind yet again. "And pray to us if you find anything further about Crowley or Cain."

Another nod from Sam, and in a flurry of wings, Gadreel and Cas were gone.

* * *

_"Focus hard on the circle. Make it your entire world. Think about only that."_

_"Yeah, I fuckin' heard you the first time," Dean responded tersely, glaring pointedly at the tape circle on the floor in Crowley's lab (read: torture dungeon) with all the intensity he could muster. Crowley had asked him what he wanted to learn first, and Dean told him he wanted to learn how to teleport. He didn't think it would be this difficult, though._

_"You're getting too angry. Although I do love your feisty side, if you let it get the best of you, you're not going to be able to focus well enough to get this done."_

_"I'm a goddamn demon now, and you expect me to be patient?"_

_"I'm not telling you to be patient. I'm no hypocrite. No, patience isn't what you need... you need calm," Crowley advised. Dean gritted his teeth. He was stronger than Crowley, but the demon had been around for so long and had spent so much time refining his powers that when it came to this, the demon king was far superior. And he fucking hated it._

_Dean took a deep breath, trying to center himself, but without the Blade in his hand, he felt... erratic. Unsure. Shaky. Confused._

**you need me**

_He flinched visibly, and Crowley narrowed his dark green eyes at him. "If holding the Precious will help, by all means." He gestured at Dean, and he bit the inside of his lip. It couldn't hurt to just hold onto it. He reached into his jacket (a new one that Crowley had procured for him upon their return) and pulled out the First Blade. It was freshly cleaned, as he had to wash it after his last outing. _

_Once his hand wrapped around the handle, his cool, crystal clarity returned. He sighed in contentment._

_"Better?" Crowley asked with an arched eyebrow._

_"Much." He honed in on the circle, then let his eyes fall closed, the image of that particular spot on the floor burned into his mind. He envisioned himself in the circle, and then-_

_"Brilliant!"_

_Dean opened his eyes, and he realized that he was standing in the circle. He glanced down, then smirked. He'd done it. Being able to just zap all over the place like Cas? Yeah, that'd definitely come in handy. Cas... his smile fell when he thought of Cas, though he didn't know why. Every time the angel came to mind, he felt like his thoughts hit a wall, and then his train of thought would slip away from him._

_"Not bad for a newbie, eh?" Dean asked, glancing up at Crowley. He'd already forgotten what he'd been thinking about._

_"Not bad at all. Now let's see if you can replicate it..."_

"I think she's waking up."

"Her eyelids? Yeah, they just fluttered."

"Should we call in the nurse?"

"No, no, we might just be imagining things..."

Ronnie opened up her eyes, shaking off the last remnants of the strange dream, and her retinas were immediately assaulted by harsh fluorescent light. She winced, turning her head away from the light. She smelled the sharp scent of disinfectant, and felt paper thin sheets on top of her. Hospital... she was in a hospital. Generally not a good sign.

"Ronnie!"

She glanced to her side. Her younger brother Matt sat directly by her side, her hand in his. Towering over him was Dale, her long time friend and fellow Navy officer. They both looked like they hadn't slept the night before.

"Hey, guys," she said weakly. She recognized the hospital room. They were in Bethesda, unsurprisingly. "Didn't know you were on liberty, Dale."

"Yeah, just got in yesterday. I was gonna call." He smiled at her. "You feelin' alright, Ronnie?"

"Feel like Hell, actually..." She groaned. "What happened?"

"Don't you remember?" Matt asked, tilting his head.

"Wouldn't have asked if I did."

"Your car was struck by lightning," Matt said, looking half terrified, half amazed. "It hit you - straight up _hit you_. The doctors are really freaked out. You've got this big mark on your chest, but nothing's really wrong with you, even though you should be like, a vegetable right now."

With a wince, Ronnie sat up. "You're telling me that I got hit by lightning?" she said slowly.

"Yep," Dale told her. "If it was anyone but you, I'd be surprised that you lived. But knowing you, well, you're too stubborn to die."

She laughed at that. "Got that right."

"I'm just glad you're okay," Matt told her emphatically. "When Dale called me and told me what happened-"

"He had a conniption," Dale filled in. "A very caring, brotherly conniption." Matt glared at him, but didn't argue.

"Wow..." Ronnie scratched the back of her head. "This is insane."

She was having trouble focusing on her conversation with Matt and Dale, because she kept seeing flashes of those strange dreams in her mind. They almost seemed like visions, with how clear they were. And somehow, she'd known everything that was going on, understood what was happening as if she was experiencing it herself. The premise of it all had been ridiculous - angels, demons, monster hunters, it was all stuff of fairy tales - but it all seemed so vivid in her mind... so real...

Matt snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Huh?" She jumped a little. "Oh, yeah. Totally fine. Just... I had some pretty weird dreams when I was out. It was nothing." She glanced around the hospital room, trying to clear her head. "Any chance I could get something to eat? I'm starving."

* * *

Castiel and Gadreel didn't return until the next day. Sam knew that he was supposed to be sleeping, but the most rest he'd been able to get was about two hours with his face plastered to the surface of the table in the library. How could he possibly sleep when everytime he closed his eyes, he saw his brother with black eyes?

"I think I may have located Cain," Gadreel shared upon arrival. Sam sat up quickly, blinking the drowsiness out of his vision.

"Where?"

"There are a significant amount of demonic omens starting in northeastern Pennsylvania shortly after Dean and Crowley met with him. Crop deaths, unusual weather. It's a wooded and secluded area, near a small town called Wallaceville. I've found an old farm house on a large spread of property. I can detect the stink of demonic influence on the area."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Sam said, rising to his feet. "Let's go."

Castiel nodded. "Yes. We have no time to waste." Castiel went to reach for Sam, but Gadreel beat him to it, putting his hand on his shoulder. In a flash, they were gone, and suddenly they were outside. A warm spring breeze pushed at Sam's hair. He craned his neck. He, Cas, and Gadreel were standing in the shadow of a white, three story farm house. Rotted wooden steps led up to the porch. Sam furrowed his brow when he heard the distinct sound of buzzing in the distance.

Cas tilted his head. "He keeps bees," the angel said, seeming faintly pleased.

"Should we just... go in?"

"From what I understand, it is custom to knock before entering the house of another," Gadreel advised him.

"Yes, it would be wise to announce ourselves," Cas agreed.

Sam face-palmed. Angels and their die hard love of the literal. "Okay, okay. Let's just go. I guess there's no sense in trying to surprise a demon like Cain. From what Dean said, he's put killing behind him, so if that's still true... we should be safe." Sam headed up the stairs, Gadreel and Castiel hot on his heels. When he arrived at the front door, he took the rusted knocker in his hand and rapped several times on the wooden door.

There was no answer.

"Can one of you do some kind of angel-scan to see if he's even in there?"

"I've already done so," Gadreel answered. "There is a strong demonic presence inside the house at this very moment."

Sam sighed. He knocked again. "Cain? Please, we need to speak with you! It's... it's about Dean. About the Mark."

The three of them waited. Sam was relieved when he heard soft footsteps from within the house. He was surprised to feel a thrill of anxiety as the demon neared. This was Cain. One of the first demons. The man - demon, whatever - who invented murder. Fratricide. He was Lucifer's most trusted, the leader of the Knights of Hell...

The door opened. A man stepped out. He had thick gray-silver hair and a beard to match, and piercing blue eyes. He wore a simple cotton shirt. He looked perfectly unthreatening, though something ancient lurked in his eyes. He saw millions of years there, just like he saw when he looked at Cas and Gadreel. The man considered him for a few moments before he spoke, his voice low and soft.

"I've been expecting you."

Sam blinked at that. Really? Because twenty-four hours ago, he had no intentions of coming to see him. "Are you Cain?"

"Yes." Cain's eyes went from Sam, to Castiel, to Gadreel. "The angels stay out here. I'll speak only to you."

"I will not allow that," Gadreel said, stepping in front of Sam. "We have no guarantee that Sam will be safe with you."

"I can take care of myself, Gadreel," Sam said, irritation creeping into his tone. This angel tried to destroy him from the inside out, and now he was defending him like some kind of white knight?

"He is no average demon, Sam," Cas warned him. Oh, he was perfectly aware of that.

"Either Sam comes alone, or this conversation is over," Cain said. "This house is warded against your kind," he said to Cas and Gadreel.

"Guys," Sam said over the protests from both angels. "I've got this. Wait here for me."

Neither Cas or Gadreel seemed pleased. "Be cautious," Cas said quietly.

"I always am," he said, then looked to Cain, who nodded once. The demon turned his back on them and headed back into the house. Bracing himself, Sam followed him inside.

The front door slammed shut behind him.


	5. Too Far Gone

**Chapter 5 - Too Far Gone**

* * *

"Sit."

Sam obeyed the ancient demon's command, seating himself at the rickety table in the center of a small kitchen. Cain busied himself making tea, humming softly to himself as he worked. Sam clasped his hands together, willing himself to be patient. He wanted to launch into the third degree right off the bat, but if he wanted to drain Cain of all the information he held, he would have to play the demon's game.

Dean said he was a weird dude. He was starting to see that.

Time passed. The sun sank lower outside, painting the kitchen orange. After what seemed like an eternity, Cain finished with the tea. He set a cup down in front of him. The demon seated himself across from Sam, taking a careful sip of his own cup. Cain's eyes drilled into him. Watching. Assessing. He had the eyes of a soldier, retired or not.

"Your brother is dead, isn't he?" It was barely a question.

Fighting back a wave of emotion, Sam nodded. "Metatron killed him."

"The Scribe? Interesting."

"It's not interesting. I had to watch my brother bleed out in front of me." His jaw tightened as he added, "Again."

"I'm sorry, if you can even believe that. Truly sorry. I know what you're feeling."

"You killed your own brother." He kept the accusation out of his tone, kept it as more of a statement. Cain's expression turned grave.

"I did. But I also saved him." The demon sighed heavily. "You came for answers, Sam, so ask your questions."

"Where's my brother?"

"You told me moments ago that he was dead."

"Don't play games with me," he said, a low warning in his voice. "His body is gone. Cas can't find his soul, not in Hell, and not in Heaven. I... the Mark, your Mark, does it have some kind of effect after someone dies?"

"Effect?"

"Cas... he said that there's a possibility that..." He fumbled for the words. He was almost fearful to speak them, worried that if brought to life they could become true. "That Dean could be a demon, now."

Cain sipped at his tea. "I did not just turn into a demon after killing my brother. No, it... I didn't want to be what the Mark was forcing me to become. I killed myself with the First Blade, but the Mark held on. When I died, it corrupted my soul, and when I awoke, I was a demon. I see no reason why the same wouldn't happen to Dean. He is like me in many ways."

"Dean is nothing like you," Sam spat out, and he felt like a steel claw was reaching inside of his chest and squeezing. "He _isn't_. He would never hurt me. He never has hurt me." Okay, so that was a lie, but Dean never meant to hurt him. Never.

"I had no other choice." Cain's voice was steel. "Dean is more like me than you will ever know. Especially now. I tried to warn him, but he didn't want to listen. He was so enamored with the idea of killing Abaddon that nothing else mattered to him."

"You don't know my brother."

"He's a killer, and I know killers. We are bound by the blood we've spilled," Cain said. "I'm sure you want some kind of cure-all to fix your brother. I'm afraid I don't have one for you."

"I know a ritual that can cure demons, that can turn them human again-" he began, but Cain cut him off.

"Is that what you did to the Crossroads King?" the demon inquired, seeming honestly curious. Sam was taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

"His soul," Cain said, as if it explained everything.

"Crowley doesn't have a soul."

"The essence of a demon is a twisted, extinguished human soul - except that Crowley's is not extinguished. It has this faint flicker to it, like a smoldering ember."

That was news to him. They'd given Crowley a part of his soul back? "We tried to cure him. We almost finished, but we had to stop." _Because Dean didn't want me to sacrifice myself._

"I see. Well, I doubt that ritual will help Dean."

"How can you know that for sure?"

"The curing wouldn't erase the Mark. The Mark is permanent, unless transferred to another, and your brother will not be willing to give it up. Even if you were to cure him, the Mark and the Blade would eventually take hold. There's no going back once it's begun. The moment he touched the First Blade, it was over for him," the demon said, setting down his tea cup in a resigned manner.

"So you're telling me there's nothing I can do?"

"I'm saying that there is no way for your brother to be truly human again," Cain said. Sam felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. Hard. His lungs struggled to fill with air, and he felt and heard every heartbeat in his ears. Dean was a demon. Dean was a demon and there was no way to restore his humanity. He... he'd lost his brother.

_No._

"I'll find a way," Sam growled. "I won't give up on him."

"Demons aren't living embodiments of evil. They're dark things, hateful things... but they are not always lost causes. Your brother is a demon, but that does not mean that he can't be saved." Cain's eyes wandered to an old plate set atop the china cabinet next to the fridge. On it was a picture of a woman, the name 'Colette' written beneath it. "No one is completely beyond redemption."

"You're talking like you aren't one," Sam pointed out, confused.

"I am," Cain responded. "But without the Mark, and with my refusal to dip into my old habits, I am as close to a human as a demon can be, I think. I'm grateful to your brother for that much. He took a great burden away from me."

"And onto himself." Sam tried to calm himself. "I - I can talk to Dean. I can try to get him to give up the Blade. You gave it up, didn't you? Gave up killing and everything, tossed the Blade into the ocean?"

Cain finished the remainder of his tea. Sam had yet to touch his. "Yes," the demon answered.

"Then Dean can, too, right?"

"One can hope."

Sam took a deep breath. Hope wasn't completely lost. Not yet. He could get through to Dean. He had to. "Okay, then." He pushed himself out of his chair. "Thank you, I guess. For talking to me." He turned around, but Cain halted him.

"Sam."

He glanced back at the demon. "What is it?"

"Your brother... there's something about the Blade you should know."

"What?"

"The First Blade can't reach it's full power until your brother replicates what I did."

"You mean..."

"Yes. Dean will have to kill you if he is to become stronger. He is already as powerful as a Knight of Hell with the Mark and the Blade, but if he kills you? He will be unstoppable. Even now, if you choose to kill him instead of reach out to him-"

"I would never do that."

"You say that now. You've yet to see how he is as a demon. He may not be your brother at all. But as I said, the only thing that could kill Dean as he is now would be an archangel or the First Blade itself."

"But the First Blade can only be used if you have the Mark."

"Exactly."

Sam pursed his lips. "So... he would have to kill himself."

"Yes," Cain answered.

"He might do that on his own. Dean would never want to be like this."

"The Dean you knew, maybe. Once again... he's a whole new creature."

"He's still Dean," he stated, and he didn't know whether he was trying to convince Cain or convince himself. "I'll bring him home. He'll give up the Blade."

"I hope that's true."

"It is," Sam said forcefully. He looked away, and without another word, he made his way to the door. He exited the ramshackle house, leaving the first murderer alone with his cold cup of tea. Once outside, Gadreel and Cas looked at him expectantly. He noticed that Cas's posture seemed almost stooped.

"Well?" Cas asked.

"We have to find Dean. Now."

The expression that came over the angel of Thursday's face in that moment was the most poignant display of pain Sam had ever seen from him. "Dean is a demon, isn't he?" He was shocked by the fact that Cas's voice broke halfway through the question.

"...yeah. Yes, he's a demon."

"What will finding him accomplish?" Gadreel asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Did Cain tell you someway that we could restore his humanity?" Cas tacked on.

Sam shut the front door, swallowing with effort. "Cain says he's too far gone for that," he said quietly. "But if we can seperate him from the First Blade, there's a chance we could get him sort of back to normal. Cain gave up killing, tried living on the straight and narrow. We've got to get Dean to do the same."

"We have to make Dean remember who he really is." Cas's eyes turned distant. "Let's go. We have no time to waste."

No... no, they really didn't. Because every second they didn't find Dean, his brother was no doubt falling deeper into his own darkness.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Heaven, the remaining angels gathered, having heard a mysterious call on angel radio.

It was the first time in many years that they had all congregated like this for any reason other than war... the first time since the apocalypse.

Asmodel was waiting for them. He had his hands clasped in front of him. He smiled at the assembled angels, but the sight of them all broke his heart. There had once been so many of them. Thousands and thousands of angels, a true army. A _united_ army.

No longer. No more than four hundred angels gathered in this particular slice of Heaven he'd chosen for this meeting. Some had died during Armageddon and the years preceding it. Many died during the civil war between Raphael's followers and Castiel's. Then Castiel slaughtered almost six hundred of Raphael's followers when he tried to play God. The year after, the Leviathan killed many more. Naomi's experiments picked off the weaker angels... and then there was the Fall.

Yes, many angels died in the Fall.

Really, it was somewhat amazing that almost all of the losses were caused either directly or indirectly by just one angel. Just. One.

Castiel. The angel who rebelled. The defective soldier. He'd done so much damage... he nearly erased their species from existence. Nearly destroyed Heaven in his foolish zeal. And yet, so many angels had still chosen to throw themselves prostrate at his feet. They hailed Castiel as a visionary, a leader.

Castiel was no leader. He was a murderer, nothing more. Castiel did not care about the Host of Heaven. He cared only for his human charges. It had been a long time since the angel of Thursday had been a true angel. He was a pretender with stolen Grace and skewed sympathies - he was running around with one of the first Fallen! Gadreel was perhaps the only angel who destroyed more than Castiel.

The angels... the holy flock of Heaven... they needed a true leader. Someone to guide them in God's plan as Michael once had, before Lucifer's vessel trapped him in the devil's infernal Cage. They had gone so far from what fate had ordained... and this was the result. Chaos, death, and misery.

The Archs were all dead. They were lost. Someone needed to step up - not to play God, but to serve God, as angels were intended to do. Someone had to save the Host before there was no Host left to save. He saw no one else rising to the occasion... it would just have to be him then, wouldn't it?

Asmodel was not a prideful seraph. He was _not_. He had no hubris, no sense of being qualified to lead over anyone else... he was like any other angel. He was always waiting for someone to command him, to direct him. He was just as lost as his other siblings. Their purposelessness pained him. He was truly only different from them in one aspect: he was willing to lead. Willing to speak up. He was willing to take this burden if it meant returning to the wills and ways of their Father.

Free will was **sin**. Free will was **blasphemy**.

Asmodel scanned his eyes over the masses. He took a deep breath, then said, "Brothers, sisters... thank you for answering my call. It has been too long since we've all gathered like this."

"Why have you summoned us all here, Asmodel?" an angel towards the front of the crowd asked. He recognized him - it was Cathetel.

"Heaven is restored. We have our wings back... I think it's time that we discuss our future. We need guidance."

There were mutters in the crowd. He heard the name 'Castiel' leaving the lips of many of the angels. _No_. Not him. "I believe that it goes without saying that this is _not _what our Father had in mind when he created us from the ether."

"Who are you to speak for God!" someone shouted from the back of the assembly of angels. More mutterings.

"I do not speak for Him. No one does. But, we know what God's original plan was. We all do."

Silence for a moment, then, "You mean Armageddon?"

He recognized the voice. Hannah. One of Castiel's most loyal. She would be a problem. "Yes. Judgment Day... it was supposed to be the end of it, of all of this. Salvation for the virtuous and faithful, damnation for the wicked... Paradise on Earth."

"Death and destruction on Earth," an angel by Hannah corrected. "Millions of humans dead."

"Sacrifices must be made for the greater good," Asmodel replied gravely.

"We were meant to be their shepherds!" Cathetel again. "To protect them and guide them."

Lies. Lies! Lies put into their heads by Castiel. Were they shepherds when Uriel destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah? Were they caring guardians when they flooded the Earth, killing hundreds of thousands of humans? Were they benevolent caretakers when they stole through Egypt in the middle of the night, murdering any first born son that wasn't protected by lamb's blood?

Protectors? Bah. The very thought was ludicrous.

"Have you not seen the state of the universe since the apocalypse was averted? The entire balance has been thrown off - Heaven, Hell, and Earth, all in woeful states of disrepair. The civil war, the Leviathans, Naomi's coup, the Gates closing and the Fall! What does this tell you, my family? This is not what our God wanted!"

"What do you propose we do, then?" Hannah asked, a challenge in her voice.

"We go back to the original plan. To what our Father ordained as destiny. We must free Michael from the Cage, and his vessel... and Lucifer. It's not too late to fix all of the damage that Castiel and his humans have done."

"You call saving the world damage?" Cathetel yelled. "He helped stop Lucifer! Raphael! The Leviathans, and now Metatron!"

"He disobeyed our Father's wishes! Look at what has become of us since he rebelled! The Winchesters never would've been able to stop the end of days without him! All of this, the destruction, the war, the genocide, it is _all because of Castiel_!" Asmodel tried to compose himself. It wouldn't do to lose his temper. "He is no angel, not anymore," he continued. "Even his Grace is poison, stolen and tainted as it is."

Mutterings and whispers... some of agreement, some of dissent. At least he had their full attention.

"Please," Asmodel pressed on. "We must return to the Light. Return to the original divine plan. It is the only way."

"And what if we don't agree with your plan?" Hannah asked. "What if we want to follow Castiel instead? Or follow no one?"

"Tell me, Hannah... where is Castiel? What does he plan to do now that Metatron is gone?" The angel said nothing. He knew it was because she had no answer. "I thought as much." He redirected his eyes to the crowd. "I will not force any of you to do anything. I am not Castiel," he said pointedly. "I am merely trying to save us. To do what is right. I am asking, not demanding, that you help me to do what God intended."

There was silence, riddled with anticipation. Everyone was waiting for someone to make the first move, he could tell. He could pick Castiel's staunchest supporters from the crowd, could see the rigid set of their backs, the hard line of their jaws. He was not hoping for defection from Castiel's closest. No, not at all - he was hoping to sway those who had not yet chosen a side.

Finally, an angel moved forward. Barachiel. He said nothing, but he knelt in front of him, acknowledging Asmodel as his superior.

The quiet and stillness was broken. There were jeers from the crowd, but there was also movement... several angels were coming forward, now. Armaita, Sandalphon, Machidiel, and many more. Soon the crowd was dividing itself in two; the angels kneeling before him in a sign of fidelity, and those that were standing shoulder to shoulder, glaring him down like he was Lucifer himself.

He didn't expect them all to join them. That would be foolish. But as the angels chose their sides, he was pleased to see that the amount of Castiel's followers was inferior to his own. They gathered behind Hannah, Castiel's defacto second in command. For every angel they had with them, three more came forward to him. They knew that he was their only hope, because he was the one who truly cared for them. Not some lost human cause.

When the waves had stilled once more and the lines were clearly drawn, he bowed his head reverently at his new followers. "We have much to do, but together, we can find our way back to the light." He raised his hands. "Rise, brothers and sisters. It is time."

They rose to their feet, and he saw hope in their eyes.

"Castiel won't allow you to do this," Hannah called. "We won't let you. The apocalypse is not the answer."

"I'm afraid it is, Hannah," Asmodel responded gravely. "It is the _only_ answer."


	6. Lost in Darkness and Distance

**Chapter 6 - Lost in Darkness and Distance**

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me."

"When do I ever kid, Dean?"

Dean stared at the pitching machine that Crowley had brought into the backyard of his mansion - his new mansion, as apparently someone had come in and single-handedly butchered his entire security staff at the last one, not to mention completely torn the place apart. Smart money was on Cas being the cause. Crowley had been informed that the angel was looking high and low for he and Dean, quite literally.

Too bad for Cas. If the two of them didn't want to be found, they wouldn't be found.

"You completely pulled this idea out of your ass," Dean said. Crowley smirked at him.

"Afraid you can't take it?" the other demon asked with a slight tilt of his head.

Dean shot Crowley an icy glare. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. I don't even know how I pulled that mojo when I took out Abaddon."

"Generally when demons are first released from Hell, it takes them years, if not longer, to develop their psychokinesis. Even longer to work out the rest of their powers, if they ever even bother to try to train themselves, which most of them don't. Almost inevitably, a demon first uses their powers when they're in a high-pressure, life or death situation. Or a life or exorcism situation in most cases. So..." Crowley patted the top of the pitching machine. "Hello, pressure."

"I'm not afraid of balls, Crowley."

Crowley's eyebrow arched. "Somewhere along the lines, by some astounding feat of deduction, I was able to figure that out for myself," he commented. Dean did not look amused at the double-meaning. "Still, current species notwithstanding, your knee-jerk reaction isn't going to be a positive one, once I turn this on. Stay rooted to where you are, and keep the balls from hitting you. Hopefully your reflexes are sharp enough - don't worry, though. Demons don't bruise easily."

Demons don't bruise easily, but demons do get aggravated very easily. Several hundred balls and numerous, impressively long strings of swear words later, the pitching machine was destroyed and Dean looked like he was a few seconds away from killing something. As he was the only living thing in Dean's general proximity, that put Crowley in a bit of a pickle.

Not wanting to have his vital bits become the ingredients for a First Blade kebab, Crowley decided it would be best to halt training for the time being and give Dean something else to focus on. Something that he was undeniably good at, regardless of his nubile demonic nature.

"Alright - there, there, as I said, psychokinesis is a tricky thing to master, it may take awhile-" he said, trying to calm down Dean, who looked about ready to spit fire.

"Don't fucking patronize me, Crowley!"

"Let's take a break, hmm? If I recall, you have a certain vow you made a few months ago that you've yet to fulfill. Why not do that, blow off a little steam?" Crowley offered, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

Dean's eyebrows creased. The demon seemed confused. "Vow? What are you talking about?"

"Cain? Father of Murder? Ring any bells?" Crowley asked. Even as a demon, Squirrel was still too bloody thick for his own good.

Understanding dawned on Dean's face. "I'm supposed to kill Cain," he said. "Huh. I actually kind of forgot about that."

"Well, to be fair, things have been a little chaotic for the past six months," he said. "So?" He spread out his arms. "Up for a field trip?"

"Fine," Dean grunted. He withdrew the First Blade from his jacket and unwrapped the cloth than sheltered it. It fell to the ground, and Dean gripped the Blade tightly, his entire demeanor changing once it was in his hand. "Let's go."

"Ah-ah, we need to find out where our missing murderer is, first. I'm sure he's moved since the first time we met with him."

Dean's eyes glazed over, and Crowley was sure that his thoughts were anywhere but in that room with him. Green melted into obsidian. "I know where he is." Dean's voice barely sounded like his own.

Crowley tilted his head, curious. "And, pray tell, how do you know...?"

Dean's black eyes drilled into him. "Because I _know_."

He supposed some kind of connection between Cain and Dean could be expected, as they were both the only living bearers of the Mark and wielders of the Blade. Hoping that Dean wouldn't lead them astray, he let out a short sigh. "Fine, fine. A king's got to trust his knight, yeah?" He gave Dean a brief smile. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't returned.

"Follow me." Crowley blinked, and he was surprised to see that Dean was no longer standing in front of him. Huh. Crowley teleported in the other demon's wake, arriving at his side a split second later.

"Well, you may not have gotten the hang of psychokinesis just yet, but you seem to have a knack for teleporting," Crowley commented. Dean didn't respond. The two demons took in their surroundings, and both of them regarded the bee hives outside of Cain's residence with equal amounts of distaste. Crowley had never been much of an insect fan. Creepy, crawly little blighters.

"Are we gonna just stand here, or what?" Dean asked gruffly. "Come on." The other demon headed up the porch steps, not checking to see whether Crowley was following him or not.

"Eager, are we?" Crowley called, catching up with Dean. "Good to see you so wet behind the ears."

"Shut up, Crowley."

"Oh, you know you love the sound of my voice," Crowley said with a smirk, raising his fist to knock on the front door. Before he could, however, the door opened. Cain stood in the threshold, looking grave.

"I've been waiting for you," Cain said quietly. He stepped back, allowing Crowley and Dean to enter the rustic house. It was similar to Cain's previous residence, though it seemed to have a bit more wear and tear on it. The demon closed the door behind him, then turned to face them.

Cain's ancient eyes focused on Dean, and Dean stared his predecessor down unflinchingly. The Blade was gripped in the ex-hunter's hand, and Crowley had to admire his restraint. He'd half expected him to slaughter Can before they were even able to exchange pleasantries.

"Dean," Cain greeted quietly. "I see that you've fully undergone the change."

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Thanks for the warning, by the way."

"I tried to explain the repercussions to you, Dean, but you didn't want to hear it," Cain countered. "It doesn't matter. You were meant to be my successor. You would've taken the Mark regardless of the consequences."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know that you and your brother tend to spit in the face of destiny, but that does not lessen its hold over you. The bloodline of our family began in murder and one brother spilling the blood of another, and it will end the same way, apocalypse or not."

"Our family?" Dean repeated. "What the hell do you mean, _our family_?

Poor sod didn't even know where he'd come from. Crowley was surprised that no one had ever explained the base origin of the Campbells and Winchesters to Dean.

"You are descended from me. I was Michael's first viable vessel, and Abel was Lucifer's first. I never wanted Abel to fall into Lucifer's clutches – that is why I gave myself over to him and killed my brother. In Heaven, he would be safe from the devil."

"A bloodline going all the way back to Cain and Abel…" Dean muttered. "That's what Gabriel told me."

"And he spoke the truth. I am the beginning, and you are the end. It's time to fulfill your promise to me and finish this. I'm sure both you and the Blade are aching for my blood."

The way Cain was talking, it was almost like he viewed the Blade a sentient being. Crowley couldn't help but find that somewhat unsettling.

Dean nodded stiffly, his grip on the Blade tightening. "Any last words?"

Cain's eyes traced back to the same plate they'd seen in his old house; the one with his dearly departed Colette on it. "No," Cain said softly. "No, I don't think I have anything left to say. I'm tired. I've been tired for a very long time."

"Good luck," Crowley said sincerely. "Wherever you're going… if you're going anywhere at all." The humanity-induced hopeless romantic in him couldn't help but hope that Cain could be somehow reunited with Colette in death, though that was unlikely, if not completely impossible.

There was no salvation for demons.

"Thank you." Cain's gaze fixed on Crowley, really noticing him for the first time. "I wish you luck, as well. A demon with a flicker of a human soul burning inside of him... who knows what you're capable of becoming."

Crowley felt oddly chilled at Cain's words, and for once in his life, he couldn't come up with an appropriate response.

_A flicker of a human soul...?_

"Regardless of what waits for me, after all of this time, I think that even nothingness would be welcome." Cain took a step closer to Dean. The new demon's eyes were hungry, like a lion sizing up a fresh kill. "Do it, Dean."

Dean put his hand around the back of Cain's neck, drawing him closer. They stared at each other unblinkingly. Crowley had learned during their attack on Abaddon's loyalist nest that Dean enjoyed watching the spark leave someone's eyes when he ended their life. Everyone had their fetishes.

Without further ado, Dean drove the First Blade into Cain's stomach. Cain gasped as Dean twisted it and thrust upward, effectively gouging out Cain's entire abdomen. Blood poured from the mortal wound, soaking Cain's once-pristine white shirt and Dean's hand.

Dean smiled. Blood trickled down Cain's chin, and he looked sad… it was a kind of sorrow that could only be felt by a being that had lived thousands of life times. Cain lifted a trembling hand and laid his palm against Dean's cheek. Dean looked surprised by the contact. Cain was struggling for breath, and his skin had grown pale as a sheet. Orange lightning flashed underneath his skin.

The first murderer getting murdered… at least it was fitting.

"Only… love… has ever beaten the Mark," Cain whispered, and then his body went limp. Dean jerked the Blade out of Cain and backed away from him, as if the ancient demon's words had burned him somehow. Cain's corpse collapsed to the floor, blood pooling around him.

Dean's eyes were black.

"Well," Crowley drawled. "That was dramatic."

He couldn't help but ponder over what Cain had said, though – why would the demon use his last words to tell Dean that, specifically? What good would it do? There was no way for Dean to somehow beat the Mark and his newfound demonhood. There was no going back once it had begun. And love? He doubted even Sam could reach Dean, with the way he was, now.

"Are we waiting for something?" Dean asked. "Let's get out of here before he starts stinking."

"Quite the sentimentalist, aren't you?" Crowley smirked, although he privately felt somewhat disconcerted by Dean's behavior.

The more time he spent around the newly demonized Winchester, the less he saw of the Dean he knew. It was a given that he would change dramatically once he was turned, but he hadn't expected it to be such a harsh transformation. There was so much anger, so much violence, so much tension underneath the skin that he was no longer bound to. Occasionally he would see flashes of the man he'd attempted to befriend over the past year, but most of the time, Dean was... someone that Crowley didn't even recognize.

He supposed that really, it was his own fault. He shouldn't have been so naively optimistic about Dean's transformation. He should've known, shouldn't he? Should've known from his own experience that nothing really survives the change. He shared less than zero similarities with Fergus MacLeod. The only common denominator between the two of them was their joint love of Craig. He gained everything he was in Hell.

_Or did I lose everything?_

He thought it would be different, with Dean. He didn't have to go to Hell to become a demon. The Blade and Mark slowly forced him to change. More of a metamorphosis than a forced, precise, and cruel alteration. Because of that, he'd foolishly assumed that Dean would essentially be the same once he became a demon. A little more feisty, that was a given, but still the same at his base.

But he should've known that couldn't be true... because at his base, Dean Winchester was good... and demons could not be good.

He brushed his troubling thoughts away as best as he could. There was no turning back, now. Dean was a demon. Crowley would just have to adjust to him.

He patted Dean on the back, almost companionably, trying to hide his unease. "Feel like a spot more of training? You could be quite the prodigy, if we didn't have to keep taking murder breaks for you."

"You're the one who keeps suggesting them," Dean grunted.

"A dog performs well, you give him a treat," Crowley reasoned. "Do you want to master your powers, or not?"

Dean glared at him, but at length, he said, "Fine, whatever - but no more pitching machines, got it?"

Crowley snorted. His hand still on Dean's back, he thought of his new mansion.

A moment later, the two demons were gone.

* * *

_How are you supposed to feel when your best friend is a monster?_

That was the question playing itself on loop in Cas's mind, haunting him, because he honestly had no idea what to feel. It was easy to understand the tangible aspects of his current state. The fact that his throat burned like someone had poured acid into it. Or the black spots that hovered on the edges of his vision. There was also the pounding in his head, the drooping state of disrepair that his stolen wings were in, and the throbbing, continuous ache of every fiber of his being.

His imminent demise was something he could comprehend. The idea of Dean being a demon... that wasn't a reality he could so swiftly accept. It was his ultimate failure. Some angel he was, some _protector_ \- it was a laughable concept, now. Dean was a demon, and truly, it was his fault. For the past year, he had been so distant with Dean. Although when he was a human, their separation was Dean's choice, what happened after Gadreel stole away with Sam, Kevin was killed, and he stole Theo's Grace... that was his own onus to bear.

He should've stayed at the bunker. He should've stayed by Dean's side and kept him safe from the temptation of Crowley's influence. The demon king's particular brand of darkness was something he had delved into before, and he should've been aware that Dean would be just as susceptible to it as he had been. If an angel of the Lord couldn't resist the wiles of the King of Hell, how could a human?

He could've stopped Dean from ever taking the Mark, if he'd actually been there. It wasn't that the younger Winchester hadn't needed him, but now it was far clearer that at the time, Dean had needed him more. Then he'd ran off to deal with the different angel factions on Earth, and his friend had only fallen further and further into the void that was the Mark.

He could've saved him. If only he'd been there.

"Cas!"

Cas jumped slightly as Sam's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Y-yes?" he stammered, the words scraping against his inflamed throat.

"Did you hear anything that I just said?"

He struggled to remember the conversation he'd been participating in with Sam and Gadreel before he'd drifted off. They'd been discussing ways to find Dean... he wasn't sure specifically what had been said. He was finding that it was becoming more and more difficult to focus on anything. He stifled a cough. "I'm sorry... I must have drifted off."

"Brother, perhaps you should lay down," Gadreel suggested. Castiel felt a twinge of annoyance. Although he knew that Gadreel meant well, having someone so honed in on his physical condition was serving to do nothing but aggravate him at the moment.

He was dying. He had accepted that months ago, when he realized that his body was rejecting Theo's Grace. It was unchangeable, and he had resigned himself to it. Not thinking about it had served him well enough so far.

"I don't believe that I can rest at the moment," he admitted. "I think that we should perhaps focus our efforts on finding Crowley, for the time being. He wouldn't allow Dean to wander too far out of his influence, not with his current power. I imagine that Dean is a Knight of Hell, now. Crowley would never let that kind of power out of his sight."

"You think Crowley's controlling him," Sam surmised. Cas could see the dark rage dancing in the hunter's eyes.

"Yes. Or at least, as much as anyone can control Dean." Cas went to say more, but there was suddenly an ear-piercing ring in his head. He covered his ears with his hands, but then a voice reverberated in his head.

_"Castiel, you must return to Heaven, now! It is anarchy! Asmodel is taking over... they're going to restart the apocalypse!"_


	7. Heaven Above, Hell Below

**Chapter 7 - Heaven Above, Hell Below**

* * *

"I must go," Castiel said immediately, Hannah's voice still ringing in his ears.

"What? Why?" Sam asked, confused and irritated.

Cas put a hand to the side of his head, trying to silence the screaming on the angel radio. "Something has happened in Heaven," he answered vaguely.

"This has something to do with the meeting that Asmodel called earlier, doesn't it?" Gadreel asked, apparently having heard his sister's call as well.

"What meeting?" Cas asked sharply.

"Asmodel called an assembly of the Heavenly Host earlier," Gadreel explained. "If you didn't receive it, I can only assume that he chose to exclude you from the call."

"Why did you not tell me this when it happened?"

Gadreel stared at him. "We were otherwise occupied at the time, and I assumed that you received the call as well and chose to ignore it."

"Who's Asmodel?" Sam asked, eyes darting between the two angels.

"An angel I apparently should've paid far more attention to," Cas growled. "We will return when we can."

The last thing that Castiel wanted to do was leave Sam on his own, especially when their need to find Dean was so imperative. If the situation in Heaven hadn't seemed so dire, he wouldn't have even dreamt of leaving at a time like this.

However, whether he liked it or not, he was the closest thing that the angels had to a leader – and he couldn't shirk the responsibility that came with that. If he left Heaven completely to its own devices, it had the potential to fall into a kind of chaos not seen since the Civil War.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he said when the hunter opened his mouth to protest.

In a flash, Castiel and Gadreel were gone. It wasn't even a question that Gadreel would accompany him to deal with whatever issue had come up in Heaven. In just a few short days, Gadreel had managed to win himself an almost astounding amount of faith from Castiel.

He hadn't been sure about Gadreel when they'd infiltrated Heaven together, but by the time that he was standing in the destroyed remnants of Heaven's Prison, he truly believed that Gadreel's heart was in the right place, regardless of his past crimes. He knew better than to judge someone solely on their mistakes, especially given his own past.

And of course, his Father had acted once again. He had returned Gadreel to life. That could only mean that the Garden's Guardian had a very important purpose to fulfill. As to what that was, Cas had no idea whatsoever.

The world was changing. That was the only clear thing, right now.

Castiel and Gadreel appeared in the shadow of a large maple tree. They were in Castiel's chosen Heaven, the eternal Tuesday afternoon. They stood on the shore of a small pond. Ducks quacked and swam in the crystal clear water. Cas took a deep breath, the scent of freshly mowed grass and honeysuckle touching his nostrils.

It had been a long time since he'd been here. A very long time. It felt almost like coming home.

But then, of course, he was forced to remember the last time he visited his chosen Heaven... images of black wings burnt into brilliant green grass flashed in his mind's eye, and suddenly his 'homecoming' was not so nostalgic.

"It is beautiful here," Gadreel observed quietly.

"Yes," Castiel agreed solemnly. "Yes it is."

"Castiel," he heard Hannah's voice call from behind him.

Castil and Gadreel turned as one. Hannah and the angel Cathetel stood in the clearing. Cathetel had been one of his staunchest supporters for years, even in his lowest moments. He'd been disappointed when Cathetel had turned on him after Metatron turned the tables on him several days beforehand. Castiel was glad to see that he was apparently on his side once again.

Angels were fickle beings, really.

Hannah's eyes widened when she saw Gadreel standing next to him. "It can't be…"

Cathetel looked stunned. "Gadreel? Hannah told us that you were dead."

"I was, but no longer," Gadreel answered simply. "As to the reason behind that, I am unsure – but at the moment, that does not matter. What has transpired?"

Overcoming her surprise, Hannah nodded, accepting the news. "Asmodel summoned an assembly of the Heavenly Host," she began. "He believes that the angels have lost sight of what we truly are."

Castiel stepped out of the shade and into the light. Gadreel followed close behind.

"And what is that, according to him?" Cas inquired lowly.

He had never particularly trusted Asmodel. The angel had been on Raphael's side for most of the Civil War. The only reason he survived was because he'd defected shortly before Castiel had declared himself the new God and massacred all of Raphael's forces.

"He believes that the last several years have been so difficult for the Host because we strayed from God's original plan," Hannah elaborated.

Cas sighed heavily. "Armageddon." It wasn't a question.

Hannah and Cathetel nodded gravely.

"He seeks to free Michael and Lucifer from the Cage?" Gadreel asked, incredulous. "That would destroy the world, and possibly Heaven as well."

"Asmodel doesn't care," Cathetel said. "He thinks that the War, the Leviathans, Naomi, the Fall – he says it's all punishment for our disobedience."

Cas could tell from Cathetel's tone that he thought that Asmodel's reasoning was, as Dean would say, total BS.

"How can he think that?" Cas asked, frustrated. "God wanted us to stop the Rapture! He helped us, He put the Winchesters on that plane when Lucifer rose, He resurrected me – He doesn't want the world end! The apocalypse was the Archangel's plan, not His."

"That is what many of us believe as well," Hannah assured him. "But some of the angels have fallen in with Asmodel, mostly out of fear."

"How many are 'some'?" Gadreel inquired.

"…A little over half," the female angel answered somewhat dejectedly.

"Half," Castiel repeated.

He let out a long breath, trying to think past the dull ache that consumed his whole body and the seemingly never-ending drum beat in his skull. How could so many angels be sucked in by Asmodel's fear-mongering? Hadn't they learned by now that ending the world would solve nothing?

"Those who have chosen to oppose Asmodel have already gathered together," Hannah informed him. "We are waiting for your command, Castiel."

"I don't command anyone, Hannah," Castiel told her weakly. "That is the point I have been trying to get across for so long – you don't need a leader. You can be free. You can make your own decisions."

Hannah and Cathetel merely looked confused by his statement. Cas suppressed the urge to sigh. It was still like trying to teach poetry to fish, if not harder.

"Please, Castiel," Cathetel said. "It is our choice to follow you. We want to help you save the world!"

Cas privately wished that the world could pick a more convenient time to try to throw itself off of a cliff. Why was it that this seemed to happen on an almost annual basis?

"I only have one order for you," Cas said shortly. "Do not engage Asmodel or his followers for any reason."

"But-"

"How many angels are left, Cathetel?" Cas asked, cutting the other angel off. "Four hundred? Five hundred? We cannot afford another war. We have had enough bloodshed to last a thousand years. Tens of thousands of years," he corrected. "Please… if you choose one thing, one command to follow, let it be that. Don't fight them. They're our family."

Both Hannah and Cathetel were silent for a long moment.

"But what if they attack us first?" Hannah eventually asked.

"We will deal with that when the time comes – if it comes at all. The only way to open the Cage now that the Seals are broken are the Horsemen Rings, which have been missing for years." A lie, but a necessary one. "I will make sure that the apocalypse is not restarted. Trust me, and focus on fixing Heaven. That is the only advice that I can give you. It is up to you whether you follow it or not."

"Will you at least come and speak to the angels?" Cathetel asked in an almost pleading tone. Cas frowned.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think that would be a good idea," he told him gently. He didn't want the other angels to see him in his increasingly weak state. "You all need to stop viewing me as some kind of Messiah. I am just an angel. I'm just-"

"-Castiel. Yes, we know," Hannah finished for him in a heavy tone. She glanced at Cathetel, who nodded subtly. "We will deliver your message to them, then."

"Thank you," Cas said, and he meant it. With quick bows of their heads, the two angels were gone, leaving Cas and Gadreel alone in the park.

"They want nothing more than to follow you," Gadreel commented once Hannah and Cathetel were gone. "Why are you so reluctant to lead? You have certainly proven your worth."

Cas didn't exactly agree with the other angel on that account. "There are many reasons. A valuable lesson that I've learned in recent years is that no one has the right to play God. By leading the angels, I am filling the void that our Father left behind. They will come to look at me as His replacement, and that is not right. No one but God, is God. The angels must learn to believe in themselves and their own judgment, or it will just be a never-ending string of false idols."

"Like the Hebrews and their golden calf."

"You've studied scripture," Cas noted with a hint of pride. Gadreel had been imprisoned since almost the beginning of time itself, so he was not present for the large majority of Biblical events, as most other angels were, so he must have taken the time to study on his own. "Yes… and I do not want to be their golden calf." He flexed his shaking hands, examing the lines on his vessel's palms. "It's not as if I am going to live for very much longer, anyway. In my current state, I am unfit to lead anyone."

"There may still be a way to heal you. Do not give up hope," Gadreel said.

Cas admired Gadreel's optimism, but he couldn't claim to feel the same way. He could see no way to save himself from being devoured by his stolen Grace.

"I must return to Earth," Cas said. "What I told Cathetel and Hannah was not wholly the truth – the Horseman Rings are not lost. If I am not mistaken, they are still in the Winchesters' possession. With luck, Sam will know where they are." Luck. It was something they never seemed to have a surplus of.

"Let us depart immediately, then," Gadreel unfurled his wings, preparing to leave. Cas halted him with a raised hand.

"Wait. I have a favor to ask of you," he said. Gadreel narrowed his eyes and waited for him to continue. "Heaven is a pot about to boil over. I cannot afford to remain here right now, but it would do for me to have someone here to act as my ambassador."

Gadreel tilted his head. "I don't believe that I fully understand your meaning."

"I'm asking you to watch over Heaven while I am occupied with matters on Earth," Castiel elaborated. "Dean and Crowley must be found, and I need to find a way to keep the Horseman Rings safe. If anything happens here, I need someone I trust to deal with the situation until I can come myself."

Gadreel almost looked stunned. "You would… you trust me?"

"You proved yourself to me, Gadreel. I have every confidence in you."

"The other angels..."

"I told you in Heaven's Prison that you had redeemed yourself," Cas told him. "I told you the truth. Hannah will spread word of your allegiance to me. The angels that are loyal to me will not hurt you."

"And Asmodel's followers?"

"I think it would be best if you steered clear of them," Cas advised him. Gadreel nodded.

"I will perform this duty with honor, brother," Gadreel said. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder. "Thank you, Castiel. Thank you. You have given me a second chance... a true second chance. I will never be able to repay you."

"You do not have to repay me, Gadreel. Be a good angel. Be the best you can be. That is payment enough." He patted the angel's wrist. "If anything happens, call me."

"Of course."

With a flutter of his wings, Castiel was gone.

* * *

"I've got a task for you, Dean."

"Where and how many?"

"Has it occurred to you that maybe I want you to do something that doesn't involve a mass killing?"

"That's really funny, Crowley." The dry look the once-human gave him spoke volumes.

"Point." Crowley cleared his throat, clasping his hands over the top of his desk. Dean was seated in one of the leather armchairs directly in front of him, running his fingernail absent-mindedly along the length of the First Blade. "I feel like the answer to this lies in the question, but do you feel like a field trip to Detroit?"

Dean glanced up. "Where and how many?" he repeated.

"I've already texted you all the juicy deets. I'd say between twenty and thirty. Enough to at least sate your appetite for a bit, hmm?"

"A bit," Dean agreed, already rising from the chair in front of Crowley's desk.

"Do you need me to teleport you there?" Crowley asked, though it wasn't so much a genuine offer as a challenge – nothing would stir Dean to better utilize his powers than the idea of having to rely on Crowley for anything. He'd been noticing that more and more lately. The fact that Crowley's powers were more refined than Dean's seemed to practically enrage the new demon.

Crowley thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't ended up skewered on the First Blade yet; he wasn't sure how predictable Dean's temper was, as he was still feeling out precisely who Dean was as a demon. It was best not to poke at a bear, so he tried to stay on Dean's good side as an attempt to keep him at an even-keel.

Sending him to Detroit, well, it had been said that you should throw a dog a bone, every once in awhile. Since Dean had spilled no blood since killing Cain two days prior, Crowley was sure that the new demon was beginning to get antsy, and an antsy Knight of Hell was not something Crowley wanted to have to deal with.

It made Dean happy, and it helped stabilize his control on Hell. They both won.

_But what happens when you can't feed his bloodlust any longer?_

"No," Dean said swiftly. "I got it. Might take me a few tries, but I'm getting a hang of zapping around. When you were at that meeting yesterday, I went to Antarctica."

Crowley's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because I can. Duh."

Crowley smirked faintly. It almost gave him a sense of peace when hints of the old Dean shone through his new demonic demeanor. "The best part of being a demon," Crowley commented.

"No kidding." Dean breathed deeply, his eyes flashing back. "Catch you later."

Crowley blinked. Dean was gone. He really was a fast learner. Crowley twirled his fingers, summoning himself a glass of Craig and trying to push away and troubling thoughts that were related to the demon that just departed his office.

_Dean is fine. Hell is fine. _I'm_ fine. I've got nothing to be concerned about._

So why the hell was he so worried?

A knock came at the door of his office, interrupting his thoughts. He set his Craig to the side, clearing his throat.

"Come in."

In came Kayce, one of his newer hires who was currently acting as his much needed ears and eyes. Kayce was a slimy, slippery thing, but the same could be said about most demons, including himself, in some cases. He was useful, and that was all Crowley cared about.

Well, that and loyalty – but the demons as a whole were finally starting to get the picture on that front: serve the King, or die.

"Sir," Kayce said with a reverent bow of his head. "I have news."

"I'm waiting with bated breath to hear it," Crowley replied dryly.

"Have you noticed the unusual weather patterns of late?"

"Let's brass these tacks, shall we? I've seen the prophet omens. We all have. So, tell me where my prophet is," Crowley told his underling. He hadn't seen freak lightning storms like this since Kevin was chosen to be a prophet. Only one explanation – Cas had pushed some kind of button in Heaven, and now there was a new game piece on the board… a new prophet.

A prophet that he was determined to make his. Hopefully with less bloodshed, holy water showers, and significantly more success than last time.

"Veronica Whitaker," Kayce said hurriedly, skipping straight to the point. He placed a thick manila folder on his desk. Crowley picked it up and began perusing through it with narrowed eyes.

"She lives in Washington DC," Kayce provided.

Crowley nodded as he read through the file. Ms. Veronica Elizabeth Whitaker was, in her own way, just as impressive as Kevin, by the looks of it, though her inherent intelligence hadn't led her to Princeton, but into the military. She was a lieutenant in the Navy's Chaplain Core. She'd served two tours already, and at twenty-nine, her service record was practically glowing.

A picture was included in her personnel file. He slipped it out of the paper clip that was holding it and examined it. Although in the picture, her red hair was bound back and she had a stoic expression, she was still very pretty. He idly wondered what she would look like if she was smiling.

He continued reading the file that Kayce had put together. Whitaker's entire unit had been killed by an errant landmine in the Middle East. She was the sole survivor, having been thrown clear of the blast and inflicted with minimal injuries. Hmm. Tragic and beautiful. Quite a Shakespearian heroine, this one.

A police report was attached to the file. Whitaker had apparently been struck by lightning while leaving the Navy Yard several nights ago. She'd been admitted to the hospital, but miraculously, she was totally unharmed. Her attending doctor's chart was included – he had to credit Kayce for being able to get his hands on that – and it noted that she'd been having strange dreams that she wouldn't elaborate on the content of.

Yes. She was a very likely candidate indeed.

"Brilliant," Crowley said, closing the manila folder. "A new prophet – and this time, I'll actually get to her first." Castiel and Sam were no doubt going to be scrambling for ways to find him, find Dean, and turn the hunter back into a full-on, Mark-of-Cain-free human. They wouldn't be paying attention to anything else, which worked to his advantage.

"What are you going to do, sir?"

"Take a trip to DC," Crowley said. "I haven't been to the Capital in ages. I'll make a day of it."

"Are you going to have Dean accompany you?" the demon inquired. He wasn't surprised by the question; Dean and Crowley had been essentially inseparable since Dean had awakened from his pseudo-death with black eyes.

Although Crowley wouldn't dare admit it aloud, it had been a nice change. He was accustomed to being on his own, and before the Winchesters' botched half-curing of his demonic nature, that had never bothered him… but this past year, the silence, the solitude… it had been a torture in and of itself. He didn't relish being left with his own thoughts. Dean's presence was a distraction, and he appreciated it.

He had a friend, now, a friend who wouldn't kill him just to appease his younger brother. It was a very pleasant change from his relationship with Dean when he'd been human.

"Dean is not particularly well-suited for situations as delicate as this... anything that doesn't require brutal murder isn't really in his wheelhouse," Crowley replied, standing up. "Nicely done, Kayce. You've more potential than I originally thought."

Kayce looked pleased. "Thank you, my King."

Oh, he did like it when his charges called him that. "Push all of my appointments ahead until tomorrow," he told him. "If everything goes well, I shouldn't be long."

A nod from Kayce, and the demon disappeared out of Crowley's office. Crowley cleaned up his half empty glass with a snap of his fingers, examined himself in the mirror, and then teleported to Washington DC with barely a thought, right in front of the apartment building in Fairfax that Veronica Whitaker called home.

He'd already memorized her whole file. Photographic memory came in handy, certainly. Every good hunter should know what they were hunting.

He crossed the street and made his way into the tall, pristine-looking apartment complex. It was a higher-end kind of residence, he could tell. Her apartment was on the second floor, apartment B, according to the address in her personnel file. He made his way up the stairs. He paced down the hall before halting in front of the proper apartment.

There were several ways that this could go. With luck, she was a prophet like Kevin – tablets only – which of course meant that there were more tablets to be decoded, which could certainly work in his favor, unless they contained another recipe for the downfall of Hell. Regardless, any information from God Himself would be valuable.

If she was a prophet in the style of Chuck, that could be to his advantage in its own way. All the better to spy on Sam and Castiel with, keep tabs on them to make sure they weren't up to anything that would lead to his immediate demise. However, if Ms. Whitaker was seeing the next installation of the 'Winchester Gospel', she would likely be having visions of both halves of the dynamic duo... meaning she might recognize him on sight from seeing scraps of Dean's new lifestyle.

Most people don't react well to finding the King of Hell on their doorsteps. That could be a problem.

He had a plan in place for any scenario. He would deal with whatever resistance the possible prophet offered; when he wanted something, he got it, no matter what means were required to obtain it.

Crowley lifted his hand and knocked twice on the door. There was a muffled, "Coming!" from the other side. A moment later, the door opened, and the woman he'd seen in the file stepped out, though she looked much different in person, minus the stern military dress and demeanor. Long red hair hung down past her shoulders. She was dressed in loose fitting sweat pants and a green tank top.

When her hazel eyes fixed on him, they widened almost comically.

"Oh my God." She stared at him for several seconds.

And then she slammed the door in his face.

_Well, this is going fabulously so far._


	8. A Man of Wealth and Taste

**Chapter 8 - A Man of Wealth and Taste**

* * *

Ronnie leaned against her shut front door, breathing hard. She had to have imagined what she'd just seen, obviously. The King of Hell she'd been seeing in her dreams wasn't really waiting outside of her door.

_That's what you get when you don't sleep for days,_ she chastised herself. _You get an all expenses paid trip to Crazy Town. _Her never-ending stream of vivid and insane dreams had been interrupting her sleep for nights since she was discharged from the hospital. Her vivid and insane dreams which were apparently leaking into her real life.

In the dream she'd had the night before, Crowley had been talking to one of his demons about tracking her down, because she was a 'prophet'. And now he was outside of her door. She didn't even want to think about the implications of that.

_Just calm down. You're hallucinating._

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tried to collect herself. When she opened them, she would open her door, and no one would be standing there, and then she would take some Advil, have a hot cup of tea, and try to get some sleep before she had a complete psychotic breakdown.

"Love, if you already know who I am, then you know I don't need doors to get where I need to go."

She let out a gasp at the sound of the familiar gravelly voice so nearby, her eyes snapping open. Crowley stood by her sofa, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, regarding her with a look that was made up of half interest, half amusement.

He appeared exactly as he did in her visions. Medium height, taller than her but shorter than the average man. Neatly brushed brown hair. Slightly weighty, but with his perfectly tailored black suit, it was hardly noticeable. His eyes were intense, dark green and focused. Focused on her, presently.

She pinched her arm. Crowley raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm dreaming," she told him in answer to his inquisitive expression. _Why am I explaining this to a figment of my imagination?_

"While I'm flattered, I am very distinctly not what dreams are made of," Crowley replied. "And I think you know, deep down, that the things you've been seeing aren't _dreams_. Not really."

Ronnie shook her head. "This is completely ridiculous." She pinched her arm again, harder. Crowley remained in her living room. She half-expected Dean to pop out at any moment, which was not a pleasant prospect, as he certainly seemed to be the less civil half of the demonic duo. "What I've been seeing? That can't be real," she argued. "Angels, demons, Cain, the Winchesters, _you_... it's just not possible."

"You're a Chaplain, aren't you?" Crowley asked. "Don't you subscribe to a certain book with similar stories?"

"Demons were not described like this in the Bible," she said emphatically, pointing at him. "You're all British and cute and - and _sane_, from what I've seen. No spinning head, or speaking in a foreign language, or biting off your own tongue-"

"I'm afraid this is the real world, not _The Exorcist_," Crowley told her with a faint smirk. "While some of my less intelligent demonic brethren prefer the melodramatic approach, I choose to be more subtle." He considered her for a moment. "But let's not waste any time, hmm? What say we skip the next few stages and get right to acceptance; everything you've been seeing is real." He gestured down at himself. "And you here you have it, living proof in the flesh... of a moderately successful literary agent out of New York."

How could she just accept something like this? True, wringing her hands and continually trying to wake herself up from a nonexistent dream wasn't going to help anything, but still. She supposed that for now, she was going to have to operate on the basis that her visions were indeed as real as the man - no, _demon_ \- standing in front of her. She hoped that something would prove her wrong sometime in the very near future.

"So you're... you're really the King of Hell?" she asked hesitantly.

She hadn't seen Crowley do anything actually violent in any of her visions so far, but she had a feeling that was only because he had Dean to use as his own personal attack dog. Dean was in Detroit, according to what she'd seen, so Crowley was on his own. She wasn't worried that he would hurt her, per se, but she still found herself wishing she had some manner of defense against the demon. The knife she had concealed in a sheath at her ankle certainly wasn't going to help her, here.

"Guilty as charged," Crowley conceded. She could believe it. He held himself like a man with power, like a king.

"Does that make you the devil?"

"No. Well, yes. Sort of. It's complicated. The devil's dead - gone, that is, thanks in part to yours truly - and I run Hell, now. Much better than he ever did, might I add," Crowley told her.

"The _devil_ is _gone_?" she repeated. "How is that-"

"As much as I would love to clear up your confusion, we don't really have time for a full plot synopsis at present," Crowley cut across her. "I can give you a certain series of books that may help you later, but for now, suffice it to say that while I _am_ the King of Hell, I don't mean you any harm."

"Prophet," she said, mind racing. "That's what you said last night, in my dr- vision, whatever. When you were talking to that other demon. Is that what I am? Is that why you're here? You want to know what I'm seeing?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Crowley answered swiftly, giving her an appraising look. He came closer. If she wasn't already pressed against her door, she would've backed further away. She was fairly certain that Crowley wouldn't hurt her, but not enough to bet her life on it.

"We could do a lot for each other, you and I," he continued.

"I don't want anything from the demon King of Hell," Ronnie responded, drawing herself up to her full height. "I'm not going to help you."

"Why ever not?" Crowley asked with an air of false innocence.

"Because you're a _demon_!"

"So racist. I'm so much more than just a _demon_, so much more than my species... look. You have gift. A God-given gift," he continued. "I want to capitalize on that, like any good businessman."

"I'm not going to spy on your enemies for you," Ronnie told him. "I'm not going to help you, period. There's nothing you can say that will change my mind."

"Veronica-"

"Ronnie," she cut across him, wincing at the sound of her full name. Crowley gave her a curious look. "I hate my full name."

"Ronnie," Crowley amended. "I can give you anything you want."

"I don't want anything-"

"-from the King of Hell, yes, we've covered that," he interrupted. "But I don't think you quite fully understand the extent of what that 'anything from me' can be." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I know what happened to your squad... I have power, Ronnie. Unimaginable power. I could bring your entire unit back to life, give them a second chance. All I need is a little cooperation, and I can save them."

"What gives you the right to play God?" she challenged. "To decide who lives and who dies?"

"Because I care more about what happens to this rock than your _God_ ever did," Crowley said, bristling slightly. "And I've certainly done more to look after it than He has."

"God watches over all of us-"

"I'm not here for a theological debate," he interjected. "Wouldn't you like to see all of your friends and comrades brought back to life? Just like that?" He snapped his fingers. "No more sleepless nights, no more survivor's guilt-"

"Don't presume to know me," she snapped. "I don't care what was in that file that your demon handed you, you don't know who I am and you don't know what I've been through. If you had, you wouldn't be here at all, because you would know that I would never agree to something like this."

Crowley watched her for a long moment. She tried to read his expression, but his eyes were inscrutable. A pit formed in her stomach as she realized the unlikelihood that Crowley would just let her walk away from this conversation. She could run, but she wasn't terribly confident in her ability to get away from a demon who could teleport. She wasn't so sure about 'unimaginable power' - it seemed that Dean was the stronger of the two demons when it came to raw power - but his supernatural abilities certainly gave him an edge over her.

"I tried to be polite," he said in a monotone. "But, I think you and I both know that this isn't a discussion."

Theory confirmed. This was a kidnapping. Crowley had just tried to be nice about it.

However, she realized something in that moment. In spite of the fact that there was very little chance that she could get out of here without getting captured by Crowley, she still held most of the power in their current situation. Crowley needed her, and he needed her gift, but how much she told him about her visions was completely in her court, unless mindreading was one of the demon's powers, which she was fairly sure it was not.

Unless a miracle happened, she was going to have to go with the King of Hell. But it was all up to her what she told him of what she saw. She'd had visions from Castiel, Sam, Gadreel, Dean, and Crowley's point of view. From what she had seen so far, Crowley and Dean certainly weren't on the good side of things. If she could inadvertently help Sam, Cas, and Gadreel, she could at least make some kind of difference. She would be a woman on the inside, sabotaging Hell's hierarchy from within.

She'd never been in covert ops, but it appeared to be the only choice she had, because she wasn't going to help the King of Hell and his Knight stay one step ahead of his enemies.

Not to mention, just because Crowley had caught her, didn't mean that he would be able to keep her. She would find a way to escape, eventually. She would bide her time until then and try to help Sam and his angelic friends.

"So, you're forcing me, I take it?" Ronnie asked.

"_Force_ is such a strong word... let's say that I'm aggressively requesting that you pack a bag and come with me."

"You want me to leave my entire life behind?"

"Sorry, darling," Crowley apologized, but he didn't appear contrite in the least. "You're an important chess piece on the board, and I'm not letting you out of my sight." A moment later, a medium-sized white blade dropped out of Crowley's sleeve, and from her visions, she knew it to be an angel blade. She wondered if Crowley had killed an angel to get it. "Now, about that aggressive request?"

Her heart sank, and with a heavy sigh leaving her lips, Ronnie went to pack a suitcase.

* * *

When Cas returned to the bunker, he returned to a seemingly very angry Sam Winchester. Sam sat at the table in the strategy room, a bottle of bourbon inches away from his hand, his eyes fixed on a thick, dusty lore book that appeared to be written in Latin. As soon as he heard the flutter of Cas's wings, he looked up, eyes bright with intoxication and condemnation.

"What the hell, Cas?"

"I'm sorry, there was a matter to deal with in Heaven-"

"I don't care!" Sam cut across him, and Cas noticed that the bottle Sam had was nearly half-empty. He hadn't been gone for very long at all. If Sam had consumed that much alcohol in that amount of time, then he was most likely drunk to the point of unreasonableness. "I don't care about Heaven, or the angels, or - or _anything_!" He shook his head, rising from his seat. "I needed you here," he said roughly.

"I know, Sam," Cas said, attempting to appease the hunter. "But-"

"No, you _don't_ know!" Sam slammed his hand down on the table. "My brother is a fucking DEMON! And there is _nothing_ I can do to change that! This is my fault! All he ever tried to do was save _me_, he spent his whole life trying to keep _me_ good, trying to keep _me_ from going dark side, and the one time in his damn life he needs me to do the same for him, I push him away, and I treat him like shit, and - and I _let_ him go after Metatron, I _let_ him do it, and I - I - _I could've stopped him!_"

Cas watched with increasing sorrow as Sam fell to pieces in front of him. He'd been expecting this since Dean had died. Humans could only be so strong for so long before they collapsed under the weight of their burdens, both real and imagined.

"I could've stopped him. I shouldn't have let him leave after... after Kevin. He needed me," Sam fell back into his chair. He put his head in his hands. "He needed me, and I wasn't there, and then Crowley got to him, and now there's no going back, there's no changing anything, and if I couldn't save him then, how the _hell_ can I save him now?"

"You love your brother, Sam," Cas said quietly. "This is not wholly on your shoulders. There was much I could've done for Dean that I did not do."

"Yeah, because you were _here_, with _me_," Sam argued, and he saw that there were tears in the younger Winchester's eyes. "It was always all about me and what I needed. Selfish... I was so fuckin' selfish," he slurred before lifting his head. "And I - I've got nothing. _Nothing_. Except you, Cas. You're all I've got, and you and Gadreel keep running off, and leaving me here... and I'm _useless_. I'm as useless as I was before, because I couldn't do anything for Dean then and I can't do anything for him now... and... Cas, I..."

The hunter's large shoulders trembled, and tears escaped his eyes, trailing down his face. Castiel was almost shocked at the poignant display of emotion from Sam. He wasn't sure what he was expected to do in this situation. Going strictly off of what he had seen on the television, situations such as this were typically remedied by a comforting word and an embrace. Without any other notion of what to do, Cas went to Sam and offered him a hand. Sam looked up at him wordlessly with glistening eyes, but after a moment, he took his extended hand.

Cas dragged him up and out of the chair and promptly wrapped his arms around Sam, as the hunter had taught him to what seemed like a lifetime ago, though in reality it had only been a few months.

Sam shook like a leaf under his grip, and Cas found himself supporting him, which was admittedly not the best idea, given his own flagging strength. He held onto Sam for an indeterminable amount of time before he finally spoke.

"I understand that this is hard," Castiel ventured, struggling to find the right words. He had never been terribly talented at dealing with human emotions, even after his stint with humanity. He wished for Dean's ability to somehow always say the right thing, the comforting thing.

Dean could bring him back to life with just a few words, remind him of who he was with just a sentence. Cas wished he was capable of that.

"But... we will fix this," he tried, and his words felt weak.

"It's too late," Sam responded as his arms came up around the angel's back. "There's no going back."

"It's never too late, Sam," he replied. "We have proven that over and over again. There is no such thing as the point of no return. We will find your brother, we will bring him home, and we will remind him of who he really is." _Or we will die trying._

Sam pulled back, and Cas was relieved to find that perhaps his words had given the hunter a flicker of hope. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know Dean," Cas said simply. "And I know you. Neither of you will stop until your family is back together."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, swallowing with effort. His tears had stopped, but his eyes still held a shimmer to them. "Our family," he croaked out, voice somewhat hoarse. "It's - it's _our_ family, Cas."

Sam's words struck Cas bone-deep, and he couldn't help but think that perhaps Sam had the same unintentional skill with words that his older brother had.

_"We're family, Cas," _Dean's words from well over a year ago echoed in his mind.

"Yes," Cas agreed. "Our family." Cas tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder, and he sent a current of his weakening Grace through him, willing him into an exhausted state - which wasn't much effort at all, considering the human had barely slept in days.

With another push of Grace, they were in Sam's bedroom. Gingerly, he guided the large man to his bed and seated him on the edge. Sam was surprisingly malleable under his grip. "You should sleep, Sam."

Sam collapsed backwards onto his bed. "'m not tired," he said weakly as his eyes fell shut.

A hint of a smile tugged at Castiel's lips, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to have a younger brother. He made to depart Sam's room, but he remembered that he still had an incredibly important matter to discuss with Sam. He looked back at the Winchester, who looked seconds away from falling asleep. He would have to explain the situation with Asmodel later. For now, he only needed one thing.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are the Horseman Rings?"

Sam rolled over so he was lying facedown on the bed. "Dunno. They used to be in Bobby's vault."

That was all he needed to know. "Thank you, Sam," he said. "Sleep well."

Castiel originally intended on leaving once he ascertained the location of the Horseman Rings, but as Sam's quiet snores drifted to his ears, he felt inclined to stay. He had left Sam alone far too often since Dean's death and subsequent demonization. Sam needed him, right now. In spite of the situation in Heaven, he had a responsibility to the Winchester... to his family.

Castiel seated himself in the chair in front of Sam's desk, folding his hands in his lap. He would watch over Sam as he slept, just like he had watched over Dean so many times before.


	9. Monsters and Men

**Chapter 9 - Monsters and Men**

* * *

If there was one emotion he hated more than any of the others that had been forced on him by his partial humanity, it was guilt. Guilt surpassed rage, sorrow, wistfulness, loneliness... guilt, he was fairly sure, was the defining characteristic of the humans, or at least the ones that weren't prototypical psychopaths. It encompassed every negative feeling into one, forming a sharpened point that seemed to dig into his chest. Crowley did not relish the fact that it had been brought to life in him.

Veronica Whitaker was going to be a problem for him, he could already tell.

She was quiet as she gathered her things into a suitcase. Crowley wandered around her house idly, passing time as she prepared herself for her impromptu kidnapping. He'd expected more resistance from her, given her military background. He'd been ready for a pointless fight, rather than resignation, but he wasn't complaining. This was already going several thousand times better than any of his attempts to take Kevin had been.

Still. It was unsettling. He'd expected more... he was almost disappointed.

He examined the pictures sitting on the mantel in her living room. The largest one was of Veronica and a younger man with a mess of ginger hair crammed under a beanie. Brother and sister, judging by their matching facial structure, eye color, and skin tone. He appeared to be five to six years younger than her. Another photo seemed to be a family portrait that was a minimum of eight years outdated, if the change in Veronica's appearance was any indication. The final photo was of her and her unit.

Her unit, all of whom were now dead. He was surprised that she hadn't taken him up on his offer to restore her squad back to life. _Who passes up a deal like that? _he wondered, trailing his finger along the mantel. Dusty. Not surprising, considering she'd just arrived home less than a week ago. _Who holds onto their principals that tightly? She's absolutely mad._

"Where are we going?"

He turned. Veronica stood in her small kitchen, eyeing him warily.

"A compound of mine."

"Yeah, but where?" she repeated exasperatedly. "I need to know what clothes to take."

"Somewhere hot." Nevada, specifically, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He always preferred the heat, and when Cas's little killing spree at his mansion in Kansas had forced him to go shopping for a new mansion, he'd decided it was time to head south.

With a stiff nod, Veronica returned to her room. Crowley frowned. He should be pleased. Incredibly pleased. A prophet under his control, and one who had a direct line to Team Free Will? She had the potential to be the perfect weapon. Yet, here he was, with that bloody _guilt_ sensation building by the second.

He didn't want to tear her away from her life, her home, her career, but it didn't matter what he wanted, he had to focus on what was needed to keep Hell under his control and keep himself and his kingdom safe. A prophet was just what he needed to stay one step ahead of Sam and Castiel.

It was infuriating that he even had to rationalize it to himself why he had to take the prophet; he was a demon! The _King_ of the demons! If he wanted something, he took it. He didn't need a damn reason, that was the prerogative that his species and position afforded him.

Crowley walked over to a shelf on Veronica's wall, distractedly picking up a snow globe and turning it. The label along the base read _Newport_, and showed a small city. He shook it, and fake snow fell on the plastic buildings.

"Having fun?" Crowley turned his head, seeing that Veronica was standing with a suitcase in hand, changed into a blouse and jeans, and looking less than pleased with her current situation. He set the snow globe back on the shelf. He narrowed his eyes at the woman before partially circling her. He noticed a subtle bulge at the small of her back. Subtle to most, but to him, it immediately caught his attention.

He blinked out, reappearing a few inches from the prophet less than half a second later. He tugged up the edge of her sweater and quickly removed the .45 automatic from her waist band. She made to grab for his wrist to halt him, but he backed away and out of her reach.

"Ah-ah-ah," he said, waving the firearm, the barrel pointed at the ceiling. "You won't be needing this."

"It's not like it could hurt you, anyway," Veronica protested.

With the bullets currently loaded in the gun, no, it couldn't do him much harm - but as he had learned from when Abaddon had shot him, guns could indeed be very dangerous, given a little ingenuity.

Crowley held out his free hand, making a 'gimme' gesture. "The knife you have concealed around your ankle, as well." The knife was truly useless, unless she got it in her head to dip it in holy water and salt, but at this point he just wanted to make her aware that hiding anything from him was a fruitless endeavor.

Veronica glared at him, eyes defiant. He glared right back, hand still held out. For a moment, he thought that she would challenge him, but then she let out a heavy sigh and bent down. She tugged up her loose jeans and removed the small knife from the sheath there. She flipped it in her grip and offered him the hilt with an irritated expression on her face.

He took the knife from her, pocketing it. With deft hands, he unloaded and disassembled the .45, then tossed the bullets and pieces of the gun onto her couch. She arched her eyebrow, seeming surprised. "I never imagined you would be so paranoid."

"I'm not paranoid, merely cautious," Crowley said. He held out his hand once more. "Cell phone."

"You're going to take my phone, too?"

"I'm sorry, did you want to text all of your friends and gossip about the gorgeous demon that just swept you off your feet and away to parts unknown?" Crowley asked, not without ample sarcasm. "I'm not letting you keep it - that could arguably be more dangerous than anything sharp and or shoot-y. Hand it over."

Begrudgingly, she dropped her iPhone in his hand. "Happy?"

"Always. Shall we?" He offered her his arm, but she didn't take it.

"I need to leave a note for my brother," she said. "He's going to come looking for me, so unless you want a missing persons report put out, you're going to have to let me write him one."

It wasn't as if the police were much threat to him anyway, but he would prefer to avoid the trouble at all, if possible. He nodded. "Fine, but be quick about it."

Veronica went into her kitchen, pulling a pen and notepad out of her drawer. She bent over her counter, taking a few minutes to write out the note. When she was done, she tore it off of the pad and laid it on her kitchen table alongside the pen. Crowley sidled up beside the prophet, looking over her shoulder at what she'd written.

_Matt,_

_After everything that's happened in the past few months, I need some time away, some time to figure a few things out. I'll be back, I just don't know when. Tell Mom and Dad I love them, and that I'm sorry. I just really need to be alone right now._

_-Ronnie_

Ronnie. He couldn't say he was a fan of the nickname. Veronica suited her better, and he liked the way her full name rolled off of his tongue. He read over the note several times, checking for any kind of hidden message that the prophet might've left in the note, but after analyzing it repeatedly, it truly did appear just to be a harmless explanation for her absence.

"Are you done trying to decrypt it?" Veronica asked dryly.

"Who says I was trying to decrypt anything? I was just admiring your lovely handwriting. Not enough people write in cursive anymore."

"Uh-huh." She seemed thoroughly unconvinced. "Can we get on with this whole kidnapping thing?"

"Not kidnapping, merely-"

"-An aggressive request," she said in a mock attempt at his accent. "Yeah, I got that."

She was a firecracker, this one. He offered his arm to her for the second time. "Whenever you're ready, darling."

She eyed him warily, quickly catching onto the fact that they were going to be teleporting. "I'm not going to end up missing any body parts when we land wherever we're going, right?"

"What, don't trust me?"

"Hell no."

"Quite a mouth on you for a missionary, you know that?" He rolled his eyes. "I solemnly swear that I will keep all of your important bits in their proper places."

She just watched him for a few moments, then sighed heavily. "I'm definitely going to regret this." She grabbed her bag from where she'd dropped it on the ground, then moved to stand next to him. Reluctantly, she linked her arm through his. She pinched her eyes shut, as if expecting something painful to happen.

Crowley thought of his new mansion, and a moment later, they were standing in the long drive. Veronica opened her eyes, seeming surprised that she hadn't been caused any bodily harm.

"See? Not so bad."

"I feel like I just got punched in the stomach, but I guess it could've been worse," she conceded. She released his arm, gazing around the grounds of his expansive compound. "I take it you have a lot of money?"

That was an understatement, if there ever was one. "I'm well enough off." She frowned, seeming bothered by that. He gestured for her to follow him. "Come on, then. I'll give you the grand tour."

They made their way up the drive, side by side. Crowley watched Veronica as they walked, taking in her features, which were more profound in the orange-red light of the Nevada sunset. She had a light spattering of freckles along her nose and cheeks that he hadn't noticed before.

He blinked, surprised at himself. He didn't usually pay this much attention to others - not in this way, anyhow. Analyzing body language could go a very long way indeed, but he didn't tend to just stare at people for the hell of it.

"Oh God." Veronica looked away as they approached the front door, suddenly turning an unhealthy shade of green.

"What, not a fan of the architecture? Personally, I think it's quite - oh."

Finally tuning into his surroundings, Crowley saw that there was a mangled corpse nailed to the leftmost half of his double front doors. He was fairly sure it had been a woman at some point, but now it was just a series of bloody, dripping pieces hanging loosely from a skeleton. Crowley narrowed his eyes at the messy display. There was a demonic taint lingering on the remains, meaning that the body had once been possessed.

He was befuddled for only a moment before the obvious answer occurred to him: his newly demonized bestie had clearly gotten out of hand while he was away.

He ground his teeth together in frustration. This was _not_ a good way to introduce Veronica to his world. If he wanted her full and complete cooperation, he needed her to feel comfortable. Macabre, stinking cadavers did not tend to put most humans at ease.

"I assure you, this is not the usual décor," Crowley told Veronica, who was still turned pointedly away from the door, her hand covering her nose.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the body was gone, leaving nothing behind but the bloodied knife that had helped suspend the corpse from the door.

"Why was that there?" Veronica asked shakily.

"I haven't the foggiest idea," he admitted. "But I think I know who to ask." Crowley opened the front doors with a flick of his wrist. With Veronica following at his heels, he entered his compound. "Honey, I'm home!"

Crowley received no response. Spreading out his awareness, Crowley sensed the powerful and somewhat malignant presence of the Mark, and therefore Dean, as well.

"DEAN!" he shouted, quickly losing his patience. He wasn't about to be ignored.

"What?" Dean's irritated voice sounded off to his side. Crowley turned to face the other demon. Dean seemed to have just stepped out of the shower, given his damp skin and the fact that he was bare, aside from the towel slung low on his waist. Normally he would've allowed his eyes to linger suggestively for a few moments, but at present, he wasn't in the mood.

"Wreaths, welcome signs, decorative knockers... these are things that we hang on front doors. Notice that dead bodies are not included in that list."

"Like you haven't seen worse."

"It's not my stomach I'm worried about turning!" Crowley snapped, nodding his head pointedly at Veronica. Dean's eyes flicked to her briefly, seeming disinterested.

"Don't complain. I did you a favor."

"Oh? And how's that?"

"You notice how your mooks have been looking at both you _and_ me, lately?" Dean asked, carding his fingers through the wet strands of his hair. "Abaddon's dead, yeah, but you've still got a shit load of demons who don't want you on the throne. Between your little blood binge and bringing me into the fold - I mean, I'm Dean friggin' Winchester, I've killed enough demons to sink a battleship - they've got a lot of doubts about you, and more importantly, _me_." Dean gestured towards the front entrance. "So, I made an example of one of 'em."

Crowley held back a sigh, trying to decide how best to address the situation. Logically speaking, Dean had a point. His subjects weren't nearly as subservient and malleable as they were before Abaddon's coup and Moose's botched half-curing of him. His very presence used to set hearts aflutter. Over the course of the past year, however, he'd lost that terror, and their trust by extension... which put the crown that he'd just barely managed to crawl his way back to in jeopardy.

Still, although Dean's heart, or rather the cold black void that had replaced it, was in the right place... blood, gore, and cheap fear tactics were the trademarks of the old administration. That was how Abaddon had ruled, and he was most definitely _not_ Abaddon.

In his prime, he hadn't needed to draw and quarter people to inspire fear; no, it was his absolute chokehold on Hell that caused terror in those below him. His seeming omniscience - his _control - _that had been enough to keep them in line. They had felt as though he was watching their every move, listening to every thought... and truly, he had been.

If only he had Hell so firmly under his boot, now.

"The old Queen's dead, Squirrel. No more gothic horror, hmm? And while the sentiment is touching, I don't need you to keep my underlings in line for me."

"If you did it yourself, I wouldn't have to," Dean responded with a shrug of one shoulder.

Crowley bristled at that. Who was _Dean Winchester _to judge how he ruled Hell? The man - demon, whatever - who up until a few weeks ago had been a mouth-breathing hunter? "Watch what you say, Dean. Thin ice is a dangerous place to tread." They both heard the low threat hanging in his words.

Dean, thoroughly unimpressed, took a few steps closer to him, anger flashing on his features. "Or what?"

Oh, but he didn't like those two words. No one in any position of authority did. Crowley went to retort, but before he had the opportunity to, Veronica spoke.

"Not that the pissing match isn't entertaining, but can we maybe keep the number of dead bodies to a minimum, at least for my sake?" she asked, shuffling uncomfortably.

Dean finally focused his full attention on Veronica, dragging his eyes away from Crowley. "And just who the hell are you, anyway?"

Cooling down, Crowley answered, "Dean, meet Veronica Whitaker, my newest acquisition. Apparently Castiel flipped a few switches Upstairs, and now we've got a prophet running around again."

"She's a prophet?" Dean looked dubious. "What's the point of her? It's not like there are any God rocks left to translate."

"Think less Kevin, more the late Carver Edlund," Crowley replied, grateful that the tension had been diffused. "She sees things. Useful things."

"Visions?" Dean actually seemed curious now. "Is she seeing me and Sam, like Chuck was?"

Veronica nodded. "I see you and your brother," she said. "I see Castiel, Crowley, and Gadreel, too."

"Gadreel? Why are you seeing that dick?"

Veronica shrugged. "I don't know, I just do. I'm not exactly a font of information, given the fact that up until about an hour ago, I thought I was just having weird dreams. And now I'm here, with the King of Hell and the Knight of Hell." She held up her hands. "At this point, I'm just kind of rolling with the punches."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Crowley. "Gonna use her to spy on Sam and Cas, I'm guessing?"

"Of course. And to get the winning Powerball numbers, naturally."

"Huh." Dean adjusted his towel, seeming to have calmed down significantly, though he was still agitated. Then again, Dean was almost always agitated nowadays. "I don't want angels knocking down our door 'cause we're hiding a prophet in here."

"If any of the feather-brains come knocking, I'm sure you'll deal with them in your typical efficient and mildly off-putting manner."

"True," Dean agreed. "Well, whatever. When you're done with her, I want more lessons. I still can't do telekinesis worth shit."

"I thought you said no more pitching machine?"

"You can teach me without the fucking pitching machine!" Dean said, not seeming to relish the memory of their last training session.

Crowley held up his hands. "Fine, fine."

Without another word, Dean vanished. Veronica seemed somewhere between unsettled and awed. "He's... interesting."

"Would you believe that he used to be the clichéd action hero type? Brooding savior complex most definitely included."

"But the Mark changed him into a demon," Veronica said. Crowley pursed his lips. Yes. Yes it had. And if Dean's behavior today was any indication, more of the hunter may have been lost in translation than Crowley originally thought. He would need to press and test further, try to determine just what he was dealing with when it came to Dean.

Although he was loathe to even think it, if Dean proved to be perhaps more trouble than he was worth... Crowley would have to marginalize him, as it were. He didn't want that. He hadn't spent all of these months building what he had with Dean just to have it all come crashing down.

Really... he just didn't want to lose him.

Along with that, he currently had no idea how to go about killing Dean, even if he wanted to. He didn't know of any weapons short of the First Blade that could dispatch a Knight of Hell. There was surely something out there, but he'd yet to find it.

_You're overthinking things, _he chastised himself. _Dean may be a little feistier now, but he's the same idiotic yet endearing lumberjack he's always been._

His inner pep-talk sounded hollow, even to him.

* * *

The night passed quickly. Castiel unintentionally fell asleep himself at one point, a side effect of his declining condition. When he awoke, it was half past eight in the morning. Sam still snored peacefully in his bed, sedated by Cas's minor sleep spell and the amount of alcohol he'd imbibed the night before.

Sam would sleep for several hours yet. If he was quick and nothing arose for him to deal with, he could fly to Bobby's, investigate the premise, and return before the hunter even had a chance to wake up.

In an effort to be as silent as possible, Cas blinked out of Sam's room, appearing on the other side of his bedroom door.

Cas stumbled somewhat once he was in the hallway, the world spinning around him. He braced himself against the wall, trying to keep down the bile that was building in this throat. Every time he utilized his Grace, his condition worsened significantly. It seemed as though it had completely lost the ability to restore itself. Before long, he would be so weak that he would have no powers left to use. Whether death would come before he reached the point where he was physically a human or not was the only variable.

There was no use in worrying about it anymore. In spite of Gadreel's hopes, he doubted severely that there was anyway on Heaven, Hell, or Earth to save himself, except perhaps taking another angel's Grace, which he of course adamantly refused to do.

He was going to die. The only thing left for him to worry about was accomplishing as much as he possibly could before that time came. Ideally, he would see the Winchesters amicably reunited and Heaven restored before his stolen Grace finally consumed him, but with how steadily his condition was declining and how much still needed to be done on both fronts, that was most likely wishful thinking.

Trying to summon what little strength he had left in him, he transported himself to Sioux Falls. A moment later, he found himself standing in the salvage yard next to the burnt remnants of Bobby's home. Cas felt a pang of sorrow and regret as his eyes took in the destroyed house that had once been the closest thing to a home that the Winchesters had, before they found the bunker. Leviathans had done this, and Leviathans had subsequently killed Bobby. Both losses were due to his own foolishness. He wished he could apologize to the old hunter for the consequences his mistake had caused, but it was far too late for that.

He made his way into the ruins of Bobby's house. Weeds had begun to sprout through the remaining charred floorboards, overwhelming what little was left of the foundation. He opened the door that led down to the basement. Upon pushing it open, it collapsed off of its hinges, blocking part of the staircase. With a flick of his wrist, Cas attempted to blow the door out of the way.

Nothing happened.

Jaw tight, he maneuvered around the door and made his way down the stairs. Each step seemed ready to crumble under his foot. He reached the basement and made his way to the panic room. Bobby had several vaults in his home, but he knew that the one that held the rarest, most dangerous items was in the panic room. Cas pushed the iron door aside, and stepped into the mostly intact panic room.

Cas was dismayed when he found that the vault was already hanging open, and starkly empty. If the vault had already been looted, that meant that War, Famine, and Pestilence's rings were in the possession of the Leviathan, almost all of whom were already wiped out. Finding them would be incredibly difficult.

With a frown and a flap of his wings, Cas departed the ruins of Bobby's house.

He had work to do.


	10. Waking Up and Settling In

**Chapter 10 - Waking Up and Settling In**

* * *

Sam woke up with a pounding headache the next day. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt thick enough to choke him. Even the faint light from his bedside lamp seemed like a blinding fluorescent spear stabbing into his skull.

Memories of the night before surfaced. _Fuck._

Something had snapped inside of him when Cas had departed the day before. Truthfully, the angel's presence was one of the few things that was keeping him even remotely sane. His brother was a damn _demon_, and if he had to somehow handle that load completely alone, he was likely to either drink himself to death either by accident, or on purpose.

It was pathetic, but right now, he needed Cas. Really, relying on an angel that was probably going to die sooner rather than later was a bad idea, but Cas was like family to him, even though they'd had their ups and downs over the years. Regardless of what happened in the past, Cas was here and on his side now, and that was what mattered.

Sam sat up slowly, running a hand through his long hair and letting out a heavy, ragged sigh. He glanced up once he was brave enough to crack open his eyes. There was a note on the inside of the door that read 'kitchen' in blocky letters, presumably left by Cas.

That meant the angel was still in the bunker, which Sam found surprising. Cas sticking around for any length of time was atypical. Then again, from what little Sam remembered of the night before, he'd had a pretty horrendous breakdown in front of the angel. Cas probably felt like it was his duty to look after him, now.

Naturally. Cas was dying, and his first concern was Sam. The angel really had picked up a thing or two from Dean over the years, hadn't he?

Sam rose from his bed, his limbs stiff and aching. He checked the clock. It was past noon. He never slept that long. He was relatively sure that Cas had put some kind of sleep spell on him the night before, as he hadn't slept twelve hours at a time since his brush with the demon trials the year before.

He made his way out of his room, the bunker floor cold underneath his bare feet. He made his way to the kitchen. Cas was at the counter, a stack of bread slices to one side of him and jars of peanut butter and jelly to the other. He looked up when he saw Sam enter, a knife covered in jelly held in his right hand. The angel seemed almost relieved to see him.

"Sam, you're awake."

"Yeah." Sam shuffled awkwardly, unsure of what to say to Cas. "Uh… thanks, Cas. For staying, I mean."

"There's no need to thank me, Sam. You were right. We need to stick together in wake of what has happened. I apologize for not seeing that earlier."

"No, I – I get it. The whole world doesn't revolve around me, or Dean."

"Actually, the world does tend to revolve around you and your brother," Cas replied with what might have been a flicker of a smile. "We need to get Dean back. It's a priority. There is no telling what kind of damage Crowley would be able to do, with a demon as powerful as Dean is likely to be at his side."

The idea of Crowley using Dean as his own personal hellhound made Sam sick down to his core. His hands clenched into fists at his side, blunt nails digging into the meat of his palms.

"I want that bastard dead," Sam said. "God, do I want him dead."

Cas's expression became grave as he turned to face Sam. "Crowley deserves far worse than that."

Sam nodded, seating himself at the table. "But for Crowley, there's nothing worse than that. He's all about self-preservation."

"That's true."

"Except…" Sam's brow furrowed. "No. There is something worse than death, for him."

Cas narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Being cured," Sam said, pursing his lips. "Then he'd actually feel guilty about everything he'd done. All the lives he's ruined."

"When we find Crowley and Dean, perhaps we should do that," Cas said, and Sam noticed that he said 'when' rather than 'if'. He wished he was as optimistic as the angel. "It would be fair retribution, given the fact that Crowley essentially forced a species change on Dean."

Nothing was really fair anymore, so he would take what he could get. He couldn't help but wonder, in the back of his mind, if Crowley would even be able to survive becoming human; if how Crowley had acted during his last curing was any indication, the weight of his existence as a demon could feasibly crush him. Would Crowley take his own life, if he was turned into a human?

Sam didn't want to analyze the part of himself that would be darkly satisfied by that outcome.

"Yeah, well, we have to track him down before we can do anything," Sam said at length.

"Yes," Cas nodded. "Unfortunately, another issue has arisen."

"Is this about yesterday? Why you and Gadreel left?"

Another nod from the angel. "There is trouble in Heaven."

Sam sighed. "Of course there is." He ran a hand over his face, preparing himself for bad news. "How bad?"

"…very."

"Well, don't beat around the bush, Cas."

"It appears that… if things continue as they are, we may see another Civil War in Heaven."

Of course. Heaven had been settled for, what, over a week and a half now? That had to be some kind of record. Sam had known that it was only a matter of time before the Heavenly Host was thrown into turmoil again. He sincerely doubted that the angels would ever be able to actually come back together without extreme bloodshed. They'd been absent a leader for a long time, and creatures like angels, the only thing that kept them from tearing each other's throats out were strong leaders.

Michael was in the Cage. Raphael and Gabriel were dead. God was MIA. The angels were doomed to this constant state of faction war, it seemed.

"Has the fighting started yet?" Sam asked tiredly.

Cas finished making the sandwich and set it down on a plate in front of Sam. "Not yet. Things are peaceful, for the time being, but it is unlikely that they will remain that way. I have left Gadreel in Heaven to keep watch in my absence… as I'm more needed here." He pushed the plate towards Sam. "You should eat something. This will help settle your stomach."

Sam didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. Cas's home and species were on the verge of war once again, and he was here, on Earth, with him, making him fucking PB&amp;J.

Sam picked up one of the sandwiches and took a bite. If there was one human thing Cas could do properly, it was make sandwiches. When Sam swallowed, he looked back up at Cas. "Are you sure leaving Gadreel there is a good idea? Isn't he kind of one of the most hated angels in the history of the universe?"

"I believe that word of his change will spread quickly. Hannah witnessed how far he was willing to go for our kind firsthand, and she will vouch for him."

Sam nodded, though he still wasn't sure it was a wise idea. Gadreel was too easily swayed; look at how quickly he'd switched from their side to Metatron's. Heaven, however, was Cas's domain, and as long as the conflict didn't bleed into the human world, he would leave it to the angel's discretion.

"What are they fighting about this time?" Sam asked as he worked on downing his odd and late breakfast in spite of the unpleasant acrobatics his stomach was doing.

Cas didn't answer at first, seating himself across the table from Sam. The angel looked just as haggard as he had the day before, if not worse. Cas's chest heaved with each breath he took, and his eyes were bright and feverish. When he moved his hands, they shook.

Another problem on their plate… fixing Cas. If only he had some kind of clue of where to start looking for a remedy to his friend's failing Grace.

"An angel named Asmodel wants to restart Armageddon," Cas informed him in a monotone. "Many of the angels have sided with him."

"What!?" Sam nearly choked on his food. "They want to let Michael and Lucifer out of the Cage?"

"It appears so."

"Why?"

"The angels, they're scared… they're lost. We've been clinging to false hopes and different self-proclaimed leaders for a very long time in an attempt to find some kind of guidance. Asmodel… he believes that the world will right itself if we carry out the original plan for the apocalypse."

"If Lucifer and Michael get out of the Cage, there isn't going to be any world to right," Sam replied, horrified.

"That is my opinion as well," Cas responded. "Many of the angels have sided with me, but Asmodel's ranks still outnumber mine. I have currently ordered all those loyal to me not to engage Asmodel's forces in any way, shape, or form, but if they choose to attack us first… I don't know what will happen."

"Another war will break out," Sam said lowly. "And if Asmodel's side wins-"

"They currently have no way to open the Cage and raise Lucifer and Michael," Cas cut across him. "That, at the least, is in our favor."

Understanding dawned on Sam. "Last night... that's why you asked me about the Horseman rings, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well? Did you find them?"

Cas looked dejected. "They were not in Bobby's vault. It would appear that someone was there before me and took them."

"You don't think-"

"I don't believe that Asmodel or one of his angels took them," Cas assured him. "But… perhaps the Leviathan took them when they burned down Bobby's home?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "They might have," he admitted, but he didn't see why Leviathans would have any interest in opening up the Cage. Maybe they just wanted them as a bargaining piece? But the rings as a whole were completely useless without Death's ring to complete the quartet, weren't they? And Death was still firmly in possession of his own ring...

"Do you have any idea where the Leviathan might have taken the rings?" Cas inquired. Sam finished his first sandwich with a sigh.

"Dick might have wanted them for one reason or another. I don't know what happened to his stuff after you and Dean took him out, though." Sam pursed his lips. "We should look into his estate, see who inherited all of his things postmortem. Maybe we can dig up a lead."

Cas nodded. "It's as good a place as any to start. Can you handle this by yourself?"

"Finding where the rings are at?" Sam shrugged. "I don't see why not. Are you going to go back to Heaven?"

He wanted to be angry, but between the pounding headache and bone-deep emotional and physical exhaustion, he couldn't find it within him to be mad at the angel.

"No," Cas said, pushing himself out of his seat with a somewhat pained expression. "I'm going to go look for your brother."

* * *

"Here we are," Crowley said, opening up the door for Veronica and guiding her into her new living quarters.

The room he'd picked for her was expansive, with its own bathroom attached off to the side. None of the bedrooms in the mansion were really used, apart from his own – but Crowley's room was used for just about anything other than sleeping – so he gave her the second biggest bedroom in the large manor.

A large, plush king bed was in the center of the room, flanked on either side by wall length windows. There was a writing desk in the corner, several bookshelves stuffed thick with tomes that he didn't have room for in his own personal library, and there was a sitting area furnished with two leather couches and a large television that had been here when he'd relieved the former owners of their property.

"Home sweet home," he chimed, closing the door behind them. Veronica examined her surroundings, seemingly genuinely surprised as she set her bag down by the bed.

"Um…"

"Expecting a dungeon? Iron restraints and garroting chair included?"

"Kind of."

"Please. I've much more class than that," he told her with a faint smirk. "This could be a very beneficial relationship, Veronica-"

"Ronnie," she corrected, but he continued as if he hadn't heard her.

"-if you're willing to cooperate with me, you'll be allowed to live in the lap of luxury, completely free of chains and whips. Unless that's your thing, of course," Crowley added with a wide smile that was fully intended to be disconcerting. Veronica merely rolled her eyes at him.

"What exactly is it you expect me to do?"

"Simple, love. You have a vision… you write it down." Crowley mimed writing. "And then you give it to me." He gestured at himself, then spread out his hands. "Simple. Easy. Painless, so long as you don't try to hide anything from me."

She swallowed. "Okay, but what do I do when I'm not, you know, being a prophet of the Lord?"

"That's up to you. It's not as if you could escape, even if you wanted to, so you'll have free reign over the property. Try anything funny, and my bruisers will put a stop to it, but as long as you're a respectful guest, I will, of course, be the respectful host in return."

"You're disturbingly polite for a demon," Veronica told him. "I'm kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop and you to start doing something-"

"-evil?" Crowley finished for her. "Well, as I always say… evil is really just 'live' spelled backwards."

"You should get that crocheted on a pillow."

He snorted. Cheeky, this one. Crowley brushed by the prophet and sank down on one of the  
couches, crossing his legs.

"Now," he said. "I think you ought to give me a summary of everything you've seen so far, since you got the prophetic zap from the original absent father figure."

Veronica gave him an irritated look at his choice of words, but then nodded. She sat on the opposite side of the couch. It was interesting how wary she was of him. Also something that would work to his benefit; if she was terrified of him and what he might do if pushed, she was significantly less likely to step out of line.

Still, she was being far too agreeable about this… Crowley didn't buy the compliant and docile act, not for a second. Veronica was going to try to resist him at some point, and he had to be prepared for that eventuality. He had to be prepared for anything, really. He wasn't going to let another prophet of the Lord slip through his fingers, especially one that the Winchesters didn't know about yet.

"The first thing I saw was Castiel, Sam, and Gadreel… they were talking about you. About finding you. Cas and Gadreel were searching for you." She frowned. "Cas seemed really sick. Gadreel told him to rest, but he didn't want to."

"So, Gadreel's working with the two of them? Thick as thieves?"

"Yeah. Well, he was working with them. He's up in Heaven now."

"He is?"

"They've kind of got a big problem up there at the moment."

"Don't they always?"

"There's this angel, Asmodel… he wants to start the apocalypse."

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Veronica, clasping his hands over his knee. "And how does he intend to do that?" He couldn't say he was terribly surprised by what she'd just told him; the stupidity of the Heavenly Host had long since become expected, and nothing they did could really shock him anymore.

Pfft. And they say Heaven is above Hell. Hardly.

"By opening up 'the Cage', whatever that is."

Not on his watch, they weren't. The Cage was in Hell, and Hell was his… he'd bloody well like to see an angel try to crack through and get all the way to the Fourth Round of the Ninth Circle before either he or Dean tore them into tiny pieces.

"I see," he said, filing away the information for later consideration. "What else?"

"Sam talked to Cain before Dean killed him," Veronica shared. "He was trying to find out what might have happened to Dean. That's when he found out that he was a demon, and that there was no way to turn him human again."

"Did he now…" Crowley pinned his tongue between his teeth, watching the prophet, who had gone silent. "Is that all Cain told him?"

"Yes," she said, a little too quickly.

"I'm going to give you a bit of advice, darling," Crowley said, keeping his tone perfectly pleasant. "Don't try to scam a scam artist. I can see straight through you… I didn't ask for the cliff notes, I want the extended version with director's commentary. Now..." His eyes drilled into Veronica. "What else did Cain say?"

Veronica glared at him. "I'm not lying. Has it occurred to you that I'm a little nervous, being alone, thousands of miles away from my home and my family, sitting on a couch with the KING OF HELL?" She crossed her arms defiantly. "Sam talked to Cain, Cain told him Dean was a demon, now Cas and Sam are looking for you and looking for a way to stop the end of the world. They're looking for something called the Horseman Rings. That's all I've seen that isn't directly related to you and Dean, all of which you already know. If that's not enough for you, then bring me the hell back home and leave me alone."

Crowley blinked, almost surprised at the prophet's outburst. "My, my. You've got some fire in you after all. Good. Meek doesn't suit you."

She blushed at his sort-of compliment, but he was fairly sure it was just because she was angry.

"Are we done here?" she asked. "That's all I've seen; when I have more visions, I'll tell you. Until then, I'm useless to you."

"Hmm… not useless, no. Never useless." He rose from the couch, straightening the lapels of his suit coat. "If you need anything, just call out for me. If I'm in the building, I'll hear you. If not, Dean or one of my lackeys can help you."

Veronica didn't look thrilled at the idea of Dean paying her a visit. He couldn't say that he blamed her for that.

"Fine," she answered stiffly.

Crowley went for the door. He still had a feeling that the prophet wasn't being wholly truthful with him about Cain and Sam's meeting, but he wasn't going to push it… for now. This was going to be a long process, getting Veronica to trust him enough that she wasn't motivated to hide information from him. He could win anyone over given enough time, and with things in Hell settling down and things in Heaven heating up, meaning that the angels were bound to be distracted, that gave him ample time to charm the prophet into submission.

Really, she was just another deal to close.


	11. Strange Angels

**Chapter 11 - Strange Angels**

* * *

"You're telling me there's an angel of the Lord outside, and he wants to speak with _me_?"

"Yes, sir," Kayce said, nodding fervently.

"You do know that 'speak with' and 'smite' are different verbs, yes?" Crowley asked, leaning forward. "Is it Castiel? Gadreel?"

"No, the angel calls himself Asmodel," Kayce supplied. "I have never seen him before."

"Angel of Patience, eh?" Crowley played absent-mindedly with his bottom lip, recalling that Veronica had informed him that Asmodel was the angel starting up trouble in Heaven. "Did he say anything else?"

"Just that he has a business proposal for you. He was very vague," Kayce explained, seeming curious. "What should I tell him?"

Crowley thought for a moment. Letting an angel into his inner sanctum, as it were, didn't sound like a terribly good idea. They would have to void the angel warding on the manor, leaving the compound open for attack by other angels.

But, then again... he had his Knight. Dean was nigh on invincible, not able to be killed by any angel. With the Mark and the Blade, one angel wouldn't stand a chance against Dean. Hell, ten angels wouldn't be able to keep him down. It seemed from what Veronica had told him, his own agenda and Asmodel's couldn't possibly work in tandem... but still, it wouldn't hurt to hear him out.

And if he didn't like what he heard, then he could have him removed, quickly and cleanly. Actually, with Dean it was more likely to be slow, bloody, and painful, but nonetheless... it was an avenue worth investigating.

"Tell Forfax to deal with the warding, have Laharl and Hensley escort him to my office." Both of his minions were armed with angel blades, and while he didn't expect them to be able to defend themselves against an angel, if they were armed to the teeth, they would at least make adequate cannon fodder to buy him some time to deal with the situation.

"Yes, sir." Kayce turned to leave, but Crowley's voice halted him.

"And tell Dean to get his admittedly well-formed ass up here ASAP," Crowley told him. He definitely wanted Dean at his side for this meeting, regardless of his current doubt of the new demons' mental and temperamental stability.

With another reverent bow of his head, Kayce disappeared, leaving Crowley alone to prepare for his unexpected guest. He reached into his desk, removing his angel gun from where it rested inside. He checked the bullets, and all eight were loaded into the Luger. He also drew his angel blade, setting the weapon on his desk.

If this angel stood against him, he wasn't getting out of here alive. Crowley looked up when he sensed a malignant presence enter his office.

"Hello, darling," he greeted, knowing it was Dean.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, wasting no time.

"Surprise visitor," Crowley said, turning around. Dean stood behind the chair that was sat in front of Crowley's desk, arms crossed, watching him with cold green eyes. Crowley found himself missing their former warmth more and more, tragically melodramatic as that was.

"Visitor?" Dean echoed.

"Angel named Asmodel wants a jaw with me... and you, by extension."

"He one of Castiel's bitches?" Dean asked. Crowley couldn't help but notice that whenever Dean referred to Cas now, it was always his full name, not the nickname that he had coined for him years before.

"I imagine if he was, we would have your half-dead angelic boy-toy breaking down our door," Crowley replied.

Dean eyed Crowley's angel gun. "You sure letting him in here is a good idea?"

"I have you," Crowley said with a faint smirk. "What have I got to worry about?"

"True," Dean conceded, twirling the First Blade. "If he steps out of line-"

"I give you the signal, and you cut him down," Crowley finished.

He saw a flicker of a twisted smile grace Dean's chapped lips. "Aye-aye."

There was a knock on the door. Dean stepped to the side, and Crowley flicked his wrist as he rounded his desk. The door swung open, revealing Laharl and Hensley, who were each gripping an arm of a tall, slender man with large green eyes and neatly brushed brown hair.

"Asmodel, I presume?" Crowley narrowed his eyes. He could see the angel's halo and the shadow of large wings on the higher planes.

"Yes," the angel said stiffly. "I did not come here to fight you, demon. Have your minions release me immediately."

"You didn't say the magic word," Crowley chimed.

Asmodel merely glared at him. _Bloody angels. No sense of humor. Or manners, for that matter._

"Fine. Let him go, boys," Crowley ordered. Laharl and Hensley backed away from Asmodel dutifully. His henchmen left his office, leaving Crowley and his Knight alone with the angel.

"I'll make this brief," Asmodel said, wasting no time. "I believe we could be useful to one another."

"And what could you possibly do for me?" Crowley asked, steepling his fingers and considering the angel.

"It goes without saying that the past few years have been difficult for both Heaven and Hell," the angel began.

"Au contraire," Crowley interrupted. "I've had a great decade so far. I am the King, after all."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you spend the majority of the past year either imprisoned or in exile?"

"It was merely a sabbatical," Crowley said tightly, with a wry smile. "I wasn't aware that the Host was making a habit of sticking their noses into infernal politics."

"A sabbatical, hmm?" The angel looked at him with pure condescension. "Is that a euphemism for usurpation?"

Crowley felt a low current of anger at the reminder of Abaddon's coup, but he kept his expression schooled, remaining cool and professional. "You said something about making this brief?"

"I want to release Michael and Lucifer from their Cage so that they may battle and decide the fate of the universe. It is time we restart Armageddon and restore balance to the physical realms," Asmodel informed him.

Crowley looked at Asmodel for a long moment.

And then he laughed. Loudly.

"Let me see if I'm following you, here..." Crowley said once his laughter had died down and Asmodel's expression had turned to one of confusion. "You want _me_ to help _you_ let the one being that could take my throne out from under me off of his leash, so he can destroy everything I've worked so hard to achieve?"

"He created your kind," Asmodel argued.

Oh, as if that argument hadn't been used on him before. It was remarkable just how thick the angel was... obviously, Asmodel hadn't been privy to who exactly had helped put the final nail in Lucifer's coffin during the first round of the apocalypse. Crowley wasn't sure just how aware Heaven was of his role in stopping Armageddon, but if Asmodel approaching him with this asinine deal was any indication, they obviously were more ignorant than he originally thought.

_"And?"_ Crowley rose from his seat. "Hell belongs to me. There's no way I'm letting Heaven's Least Wanted out. I don't care if the Heavenly Host wants their _Paradise_, my Paradise is right here, and I'm not giving it up for anything."

"Listen to me-"

"Sorry darling, but your five minutes are up," Crowley broke in. "Dean?"

That was the only prompting that the once-human needed. "On it."

Dean kicked the chair that Asmodel had elected not to sit in out of the way and grabbed the angel by the collar. He slammed him face-first into Crowley's desk. Once. Twice. Three times.

"You really shouldn't have come here," Crowley advised him as Dean flipped Asmodel onto his back and began pummeling him, sans Blade. Apparently Dean wanted to entertain himself for a little bit before utterly eviscerating the angel.

Crowley watched the violent display with a kind of detached interest. The tree topper must've been particularly desperate, if he'd stooped so low as to consult with the King of Hell. Good. That meant he was afraid of Castiel and needed a trump card. Crowley may have not be on good terms with Castiel, but he was rooting for him in the current celestial conflict, even if the angel of Thursday did want to mount his head on the wall for turning his dearly beloved into a demon.

Asmodel blasted Dean away from him, and unfortunately, the hunter-turned-demon hadn't refined his psychokinetic abilities enough to shield himself from the attack. Dean collided hard with the wall, sliding down with a groan. Crowley rolled his eyes. As if that little love tap was going to stop Dean.

Asmodel's angel blade dropped out of his sleeve. The angel's face was a mess of bleeding injuries. "Disgusting that the Righteous Man has been turned into a creature such as you," he said sharply, encroaching on Dean. "You think a twisted warrior of Hell can kill me? I will slay you like the beast you are."

Dean pushed himself back to his feet, ripping the First Blade out of the sheath on his side. He grinned. "Bring it on, cowboy."

The angel and demon launched themselves at each other, falling into a tangle of limbs on the ground. Dean managed to get himself on top of Asmodel, and he took the hilt of the Blade – if you could call the section of the jawbone you were intended to hold a hilt – and slammed it into the angel's nose, shattering it.

The angel's hand lunged for Dean's forehead, and he grasped it tightly, nails digging in. Asmodel's eyes glowed a burning hot white, but Dean was thoroughly unaffected by what Crowley determined to be an attempted smiting. Dean's grin widened, and he laughed at the bleeding angel underneath him.

"Sorry... looks like I'm above your pay grade."

Dean lifted the Blade, ready to separate Asmodel's head from his shoulders, but before he could, the angel disappeared. Dean collided with the ground, letting out a muffled _oomph_.

Dean got back to his feet, jaw twitching with restrained anger. "Bastard. We should've trapped him."

Crowley waved him off. "Let him run. Castiel will take care of him all in good time. It's not as if Asmodel's actually going to be able to restart the apocalypse." Crowley removed his phone from his pocket, sending a quick text to Forfax to let him know that he could redo the Enochian warding, now that their angelic guest was gone.

Dean was silent for a long moment. "So you don't have any interest in his whole Apocalypse Now plan?"

Crowley threw Dean a sharp look. "You having a laugh, Squirrel?"

"It's not the worst idea in the world."

"I certainly can't think of one that's worse. Then again, terrible ideas are generally your department."

Dean glared at him. "I'm just saying… maybe letting Lucifer out of his Cage, it isn't such a bad thing."

Crowley stared at Dean as if he'd grown a second head. Actually, he'd seen people actually sprout a second head, and he had been significantly less disturbed then than he was at present.

"I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. I could've sworn you just said that letting _Satan_ out of his stock 'isn't such a bad thing'." Dean merely glared at Crowley in response. "You do remember the year we spent trying to throw him back in the Cage, yeah? And your brother's ever-so-noble sacrifice?"

Dean seemed to shut down for a moment, as he always did at the mention of Sam or Castiel. "Yeah, well," Dean eventually said."Things were different, then."

"Does the world deserve to be destroyed more now than it did in 2010? Because that's what we're talking about here – _destroying the world_."

"And so what if it gets destroyed? Is it really all that great the way it is now?" Dean took a step toward him. "Seriously, don't you want a little chaos? We're fucking demons! A few seas of blood gotta be good for the non-existent soul, right?" Dean shrugged, but the nonchalance of his gesture was lost somewhat, given the fact that Asmodel's blood was splattered on his shirt.

"It's ARMAGEDDON, you imbecile! Not a day at the races!"

"Watch it, Crowley," Dean warned, eyes flashing black briefly. After a moment, Dean relaxed again. "Come on, haven't you ever wondered what the world would be like if we just let Judgment Day happen? What if Lucifer won, huh? That means Hell on Earth. That means we – the demons – we rule _everything_."

"No, that means that Lucifer brings Hell down on Earth, extinguishes the human race, and then – oh look! – time for a mass genocide! I told you all of this, that night we first met. We are _nothing_ to Lucifer. To him, we're worse than humans. We're nothing but monsters-"

"We _are_ nothing but monsters," Dean cut across him sharply. "And it's about time we start acting like it. Hell ain't supposed to be neat and tidy, it's Hell! It's messy and bloody and violent, and you're the King of all of it, but you keep it as this bureaucratic nightmare instead of doing what a demon's supposed to do – rain Hell down on everyone and everything. So what if Lucifer tries to kill us? Between the two of us, we could take him. With him out of the way, you'd be the King of more than just Hell. You'd have everything."

"In case it's escaped your notice, Lucifer is an archangel. The First Blade won't put a dent in one of those pumped up feather dusters."

"It could've killed Metatron. I could see it in his eyes when I was fighting him. He was scared for his life."

"Metatron was a pencil pusher."

"No, not after he shut down Heaven. He was almost invincible when he was sucking power from the angel tablet."

"You don't have any proof it would work-"

"If the Blade can take down a Knight of Hell, why not an archangel, too? A weapon made by the devil's gotta be able to kill the devil, right?"

"That's the kind of logic that will get the both of us turned into burn marks on the carpet," Crowley snapped. "This conversation is over – I'm not going to give up everything I've spent the past three centuries working for just to, what? Turn Hell and Earth into a warzone? Because it would be _fun_? The way I run Hell, it WORKS. It's efficient… it's clean… it is a well oiled machine. I'm not going to give that up."

"If it works so well, how come every demon worth their salt went over to Abaddon as soon as they got the chance?" Dean challenged, watching him unflinchingly.

Crowley rose from his chair. "You're testing my non-patience, Squirrel."

"And what are you going to do about it?" Dean asked, a low threat in his voice. Crowley stood his ground, but he was unsure of how to respond to the obvious challenge. Because really… what could he do?

"You may have the First Blade and the Mark, but I would recommend that you don't overestimate yourself, or more importantly, underestimate me. I've been a demon since you were an itch in your ten times great grandfather's trousers… and I will take you down a notch if you don't learn to show me some respect."

Dean's grip on the Blade tightened, and there was a glint of anger in his eyes. "Respect you?" he repeated. "And why the hell would I do that?"

"Keep in mind that I'm the only reason you're still alive. It's thanks to me that you have the Mark and the Blade. I. Made. You. Don't think for a second that I can't break you," Crowley hissed out.

Dean's expression became one of candid rage. He opened his mouth to snarl out a response, but a knock came at the door of Crowley's office, catching his attention.

"Enter," Crowley called, trying to even out his temper. A moment later, Kayce came in, carrying a letter with him.

"Sir," he began. "You have a message from Bartimaeus." Kayce held up the envelope, and it did indeed hold Bartimaeus's personal seal.

"Why can't he just learn to send emails?" Crowley asked, annoyed, but also intrigued. Bartimaeus had taken over as King of the Crossroads after Crowley had ascended to his position as King of all Hell. For a time, Bartimaeus had been his closest ally, his right hand man, and his staunchest supporter.

Until Abbadon took over. After that, Bartimaeus had seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. He'd assumed that Bartimaeus had been killed in the takeover… but apparently not.

"Leave us," Crowley ordered Kayce as he brought the letter to his desk. He pulled out a letter opener and slit open the envelope.

"Us, my liege?"

Crowley glanced up at his subordinate. "Yes, us-" Crowley broke off when he flicked his eyes to the side and saw that Dean was nowhere to be seen. "Bollocks."

"Is everything alright?"

"Fine, fine," Crowley muttered. "Just – get out of here." He slipped out the missive that Bartimaeus had sent to him. Kayce nodded, and then exited the room. As Crowley's door drifted shut, he unfolded the note and began to read.

_My King,_

_I heard that you are back on the throne. I was beginning to worry that no one would be able to take the crown back from Abaddon. Now that Hell is in relatively safe hands, I'll hopefully be able to come out of hiding. However, from what I understand, Hell is still unstable in wake of the… 'elections' this past year. Knowing what an asset I am to you, the remaining Abaddon loyalists have been hunting me relentlessly. _

_I would like for us to meet to discuss affairs in Hell and on Earth, but I would prefer it to be somewhere other than your compound. We both know how demons gossip. I want to serve you again, my King, but you know that my personal safety has been, and always will be, my first priority._

_My courier will return in twenty four hours. Give your response to him. I know you prefer using cell phones and email, but I would rather our correspondence remain off of hackable networks. I hope that you will agree to meet me – together, we can restore Hell to its former glory._

_-Bartimaeus _

"Well, isn't this a lovely surprise," Crowley said under his breath.

He was surprised and even pleased that Bartimaeus was still alive, but he also was less than satisfied with the Crossroads demon's decision to go into hiding during his usurpation, instead of helping him back onto the throne. He'd been almost entirely on his own, betrayed at every turn, left with only the bloody Winchesters as allies, all while Bartimaeus was safely on the down low.

Crowley sighed, grabbing a sheet of his own personal letterhead to formulate a response. He fully planned to take Bartimaeus to task for his cowardice, but he also wanted to reestablish ties with the other demon. After all, he was the only who had ever run the Crossroads with any kind of efficiency – omitting himself, quite obviously.

Crowley uncapped a pen and began to write.

_Bartimaeus,_

_So glad to hear you're alive and well. And here I was, thinking that you'd been eviscerated ages ago. We certainly have a lot to discuss. If you want to meet somewhere out of the way and clear of preening eyes, there's an abandoned saw mill fifteen miles due south of my mansion. Meet me there in two week's time at noon, and we'll see if we can't get this all sorted out. That is, if you're willing to risk yourself and come out of your hidey hole for a fag and a chat._

_xxCrowley_

Short, not so sweet, and to the point. He slipped the note inside of an envelope and sealed it, then set it off to the side for when the courier arrived the following day. Hopefully, his meeting with Bartimaeus would go off well, and he could further secure his hold on Hell.

At the moment, however, Crowley had bigger worries. Namely: Dean Winchester.

Dean had been slowly starting to concern him more and more by the day. Just what exactly had gotten knocked loose in the new demon's head that he thought a repeat of the apocalypse was a good plan?

Why the hell would Dean want to raise Lucifer? Just… just _because!?_ You didn't bring the Prince of Darkness back from his eternal condemnation to maximum security Hell on a damn whim!

Newborn demons were often… unstable. Incredibly so. But Crowley had thought that due to the fact that Dean had skipped the traditional route of damnation, he'd have a more solid control of his faculties. He had thought that most of Dean would survive the change.

Perhaps he had been wrong.

More dangerous than even the new demon's apocalyptic leanings was Dean's constant challenging of his authority. That was not something that he could allow to continue. Knight of Hell or not, Crowley was still the King, and he would not allow one of his subjects to question him like this.

_Subject… he used to be your friend._

Yes, well, his 'friend' had seemed rather intent on beating him to a bloody pulp only several moments ago. If not for a few well-timed interruptions, Crowley was half-sure that he and Dean would have already to come to blows, or worse.

He had the attack dog he'd wanted for so long, but he wasn't turning out to be half as well-trained as Crowley had originally hoped. Dean was supposed to be more than just the human equivalent of a hellhound. Dean was supposed to be his companion, his right hand man… his Knight.

This was wrong. All wrong. Writing it off as his own paranoia could only go so far. When the capital 'L' word was dropped, it was time to start taking preventative measures. The world was in a state of unrest, both in Hell and Heaven. His position was not yet completely stable… and he had to protect his crown at any cost.

So, a test was in order. A test to discover exactly how far gone Dean was.

Crowley took his cell phone out of his pocket and considered the screen, his tongue pinned contemplatively between his teeth. After a second's deliberation, he dialed his contact at the NSA listening post, the one who had replaced Cecily. The phone barely had a chance to ring before the call was answered.

"My King," the demon on the other end greeted.

"I need you to find me the nearest group of hunters as fast as you can."


	12. Visions of Horror

**Chapter 12 - Visions of Horror**

* * *

Veronica's first week living in a mansion full of demons was strange, to say the least. Granted, she expected an experience like that to be strange, of course, but it wasn't strange in the way she anticipated. She had pictured it all being quite a bit more violent and uncomfortable. However, it seemed that Crowley was intent on her being perfectly happy as she recorded her visions.

She had a beautiful view of the grounds and the desert from the expansive room Crowley had put her in. She was served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and Crowley was insistent on her having whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.

"If you ever need or want anything at all, all you need to do is ask. I'll give you whatever your little heart desires."

"So, if I ask you to let me go, you will?"

"Don't get cute, Veronica."

"It's _Ronnie_, damn it."

The demon was a slow learner when it came to names. Or he just didn't care what people wanted to be called - which seemed much more likely.

The days were uneventful, for the most part, but each night that she slept, she dreamt of Sam, Castiel, and Gadreel. Tensions in Heaven were worsening. The Horseman Rings were absent from Bobby's demolished house in Sioux Falls, and Sam believed that following Dick Roman's trail was their best chance at recovering the rings and keeping them safe from Asmodel. Castiel, with his condition worsening by the day, searched for Dean tirelessly while Sam tried to find Dick Roman's heir.

She saw no visions of Crowley, which was strange. She could only assume that her proximity to him was affecting what exactly she saw. She wasn't sure. She saw Dean, but only when he was on assignments for Crowley and away from the compound.

Her dreams of Dean weren't really dreams, but nightmares. Crowley only ever had one task in mind when it came to his Knight.

She wrote down everything that she saw, except the fact that Sam and Castiel had a lead on the Horseman Rings. Something that could release Lucifer… well, that was a weapon of unimaginable power, and in spite of the fact that Crowley was unlikely to have any desire to use it, she still didn't want to see the Rings in the hands of the King of Hell.

So she wrote that the trail had gone cold, and Sam and Castiel were in low spirits. Crowley came later to collect what she'd written, and she was both surprised and relieved when he didn't question anything about it. Then again, the demon had seemed distracted and in a hurry, so when he had more time to think, he might notice the gaps in her report.

As the days progressed and an odd schedule was formed, Crowley never once questioned what she turned into him, even though she often omitted much of what Castiel and Sam were up to, and sometimes even completely fabricated things in an attempt to make Crowley believe that she was reporting her visions in full.

Ronnie found as the days passed that Crowley was actually… kind of okay. For a demon, anyway.

When he had the time, he would stay in her room and chat with her for sometimes several hours after she'd given him the stack of papers containing her dreams from the night before. The more she saw of the new world she'd been thrown into, the more questions she had, and Crowley was more than happy to answer them. She was half-convinced that the King actually enjoyed her company.

She would admit that she was waiting for Crowley to start actually acting like a demon – violent, angry, inhuman – but if she hadn't seen proof with her own two eyes, she would have never believed that he was a demon at all.

She didn't enjoy being imprisoned by any means, but as she didn't have any choice in the matter, she tried to make the best of her situation. Living as the King of Hell's prisoner should've probably been a living nightmare, but she'd seen open combat in Iraq – no. She'd seen _Hell _in Iraq, and it would be a stretch even to call that a metaphor. She'd seen her entire squad blown away, heard their screams… she'd watched them die. She'd heard it said that war was worse than Hell, because in Hell, there were no innocents. She was inclined to agree.

Really, by comparison, being the captive of the new, civilized devil and his Knight was a walk in the park.

Crowley allowed her to wander around the mansion as she pleased, as they both knew that she wouldn't really be able to get away, with the amount of guards that protected the place. She had even observed one of Crowley and Dean's 'training sessions', and watched with something between amusement and apprehension as Dean tried to levitate a couch but repeatedly failed. The finer points of being a demon seemed to be beyond Dean, in most cases.

However, once Crowley placed the First Blade in Dean's hand, his focus sharpened significantly. When the couch touched the ceiling, Crowley gave Dean an only mildly condescending round of applause and said it was enough for the day.

Her visions continued to be nothing of extreme importance. Mainly Sam drinking more than any human being should even dream of ingesting, Castiel throwing up blood and barely being able to fly from place to place but fighting with all he had to keep going and save his friend, and Gadreel continuously trying to reign in the angels under Cas's command, who seemed almost as hungry for a fight as their pro-apocalypse competition.

More and more she wished that she could do something to help them. In her visions, she saw things from the point of view of one of the three – and she felt what they felt. Sam and Castiel were lost without Dean, both of them taking on the blame for his transformation and subsequent demonization. Though they were trying to keep the Horseman Rings out of the hands of Asmodel and his followers, both of their main concerns were finding Dean and trying to bring back the man that they knew.

Looking at him now, she wasn't sure how successful they would be in their endeavor.

It wasn't until about a week after Crowley showed up at her front door that she had her first truly disturbing vision. It was the first one she'd had while conscious, rather than while she was asleep. It hit her in the middle of the day, pulling her out of the real world and throwing her into Dean's head.

And what she saw was horrible indeed.

* * *

Perhaps the greatest benefit of being a demon was, as Crowley said, the freedom.

Dean disappeared, not really thinking of any location in particular – just _away_. Away from Crowley, who he was on the verge of lunging at with the First Blade. He needed to calm himself down, or there was no telling what he would do. His body seemed to be practically vibrating with energy, and he could feel his pulse in every inch of his body like the beat of a timpani.

Dean found himself in the middle of a city somewhere with people rushing by him on all sides. He stored the First Blade swiftly and took in his surroundings. After a moment, he identified the city as Lawrence, Kansas. His hometown.

Huh.

He walked along with the rest of the crowd, but the amount of people was doing nothing to soothe his extremely frayed nerves. One slice to the jugular of the man in the cheap suit who pushed past him. A swing of his arm, Blade in hand, and the woman pushing a baby stroller to his right would be down a head. He couldn't stand being surrounded by potential prey.

It was just… too many beating hearts. Too much blood pumping through veins and waiting to be spilled by his hand. He hadn't killed in almost three days, and he was hungry for it… far too hungry. A crowded street was quite possibly the worst place he could be, for the time being.

He focused his energies. This time, he knew where he was going.

Dean reappeared in the ruins of Bobby's old house in Sioux Falls. Not only was the place completely devoid of any human life, but the crisp South Dakota air served to help clear his head to a certain degree. He leaned against a wall that was threatening to crumble. The sky was thick with thunder clouds. A storm was coming.

**the panic room**

Dean flinched, surprised to hear the Blade's voice. Panic room? What about the panic room?

**GO**

Dean felt himself moving without really making the conscious decision to do so. His boots stomped over charred, cracked floorboards, echoing in the ruined house's burnt out carcass. A lifetime ago, being here would've been like claws digging into a still-open wound, but now, he felt nothing but a slightly nostalgic numbness.

When Dean reached the basement stairs, he realized why he was being pushed towards the panic room.

Bobby's vault – the one that held his most dangerous and valuable procurements that the older hunter found – was in the panic room. And the last thing Dean knew, the three Horseman rings were stored inside.

"Screw Crowley," he muttered to himself as he descended the stairs. "Let's light this candle."

He couldn't pinpoint exactly why the idea of a Judgment Day repeat enthralled him so much. It was something deep inside of him, something primal… he wanted the chaos. The war. The battle. Needed it, practically. It would only be so long before the remainder of Abaddon's loyalists were wiped out and Hell was docile once again. What would he do then? What purpose would he have?

He supposed he could hunt again, but that wasn't the kind of instant gratification he wanted, and of course he would be running the extreme risk of colliding with Sam again, which-

Dean's thoughts broke off abruptly, and he stood in Bobby's basement. His mind was a complete blank for a few moments. What had he even been thinking about?

**the rings**

Right. He needed to get the Horseman Rings. He made a beeline for the panic room, pushing the heavy door aside. However, when he touched it, he let out a sharp hiss, pulling his hand back. An angry red burn glowed on his fingertips. Damn it. The door was made of iron. He kept forgetting the side effects of his new... condition.

He realized that he wouldn't be able to get inside of the panic room, either, which would've been a problem if he couldn't see the safe from where he stood outside of the door. It was clear that somebody had already gotten there and plundered the vault first. It was just a question of who had taken them. Had it been the Leviathan, or had Castiel taken them to keep them out of Asmodel's hands?

Damn. It hadn't been a fully formed plan, but having the Horseman Rings in his possession would've been nice… to know that he had the power to release Lucifer in his hand. Of course, he would need Death's ring for that… and convincing the Pale Horse Rider to relinquish that would be almost impossible. Death clearly had no interest in helping the end times along.

It was all a pipe dream, really, but still, the idea had worked its way into his mind, and he seemed unable to shake it out of his thoughts now.

Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he rolled his eyes. Probably Crowley. He wasn't going back to the compound – not yet. He had to find some way to relieve the tension built up within his muscles like a tightly coiled wire first, or he was likely to snap and attack the first living thing in front of him, and he'd rather that thing not be the King of Hell.

Still, he checked his phone. It was indeed a text from Crowley, but it simply read, _"511 Walnut Street, Springfield, Illinois. Demon nest. Kill them all."_

Thank God – or whatever entity demons were supposed to thank. This was exactly what he needed right now. Dean took a deep breath, drawing the First Blade out of his jacket, knowing that its presence would center him enough that he would be able to teleport himself with greater ease. Exhaling his pent up breath, he felt the familiar tug in his stomach as he vanished from Bobby's basement and popped into existence hundreds of miles away.

He looked up. He was outside of what appeared to be a tavern called Buck's. He could sense approximately a dozen signs of life coming from the inside, but the sign on the main door was flipped to 'closed' and the blinds on the front windows were drawn. As if that would stop him. He tried to teleport himself inside, but found that he was unable to. He groaned, feeling a burning in his essence as he attempted it.

What the hell? Something was keeping him out. Was the place warded against demons? But that wasn't possible if there were demons inside. He wasn't sure what to do. Most of these hunts that Crowley sent him on were fairly linear. Show up. Kill demons. Leave the mess for the King's minions.

At a loss, he knocked on the door. Invincibility gave him confidence; it's not like whatever was behind that door could stand against him, anyway. He didn't detect the stench of demons inside the building or anywhere nearby. Why had Crowley sent him here?

_Is this a trap? _He wouldn't put it past the King, especially given the argument they'd just had. The last thing in the world Crowley wanted was another apocalypse. But how would Crowley take him out? Was it even possible?

The door opened, and a young woman with a tan complexion and dark hair stood just inside the threshold. He narrowed his eyes, positive that he'd seen her somewhere before – and also positive that she was a human, not a demon.

"Can't you read, jackass-" She broke off when she took in his features. "Wait a minute. I know you."

"I know you, too," Dean said, become more and more perplexed by the second. "It's Tracy, right? Tracy Bell?"

"Yeah. Last time I saw you was when we had it out with that crazy red-headed bitch and her demons," she said. "What are you doing here?"

That was a good question.

He should leave. He peered past Tracy. No less than ten hunters were gathered around two tables in the closed down bar, most of them in the process of filling syringes with what he guessed was dead man's blood or sharpening machetes. They looked like they were gearing up for one hell of a vamp hunt.

"Heard something was going down," he said vaguely. Why was he still here? He was distinctly aware of the salt line in front of the door. He wondered if that was the group of hunters' only defense against demons. They probably weren't expecting any kind of interference from his kind on a hunt like this. Dean's phone rang loudly in his pocket, but he ignored it.

"You want in?" Tracy's eyes tracked down to the First Blade. "The hell is that thing?"

"Long story," he said. "Can I come in?"

No. No. No.

**yes yes yes**

"Sure." She scraped her toe through the salt. "We definitely could use the extra help. Your brother around?"

"Nope." He crossed over the now broken line. Tracy went to remake it, but before she could, Dean grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall, hard. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I can't let you do that."

* * *

_Blood everywhere. The hunters fought valiantly, but none of their weapons did any real damage to him. Guns went off in quick succession, bright flashes smearing against the crimson paint that Dean was coloring the bar with. There was the sound of Tracy screaming, but that didn't last long once he'd brought the Blade down on her head to silence her._

_A shotgun blast hit Dean in the chest, loaded with salt rounds. He stumbled and felt a stab of brief pain, but that was the only effect it had on him. He laughed, and that seemed to scare the remaining hunters. With a swing of the Blade, he felled another, then twisted to dodge the oncoming knife headed for his chest. Dean speared him through the middle, and he realized he recognized the hunter – he'd been a friend of Bobby's._

_He twisted the Blade, and he laughed again._

_It wasn't long before every single one of them was dead, laid out prostrate at his feet, all pale with gray, staring eyes. And he couldn't stop smiling. Perhaps not as challenging as fighting other demons, but it had still been fun._

Ronnie gasped as her eyes snapped open. "Oh my..." She'd had visions of Dean going on unrepentant massacres with the Blade before, but she'd never seen him murder humans – not just humans, but _hunters_. People who would've been his comrades, before he'd been turned into a demon.

She was fairly sure that her visions came to her shortly before the events transpired in real life, though she wasn't sure specifically how long. Was there some way she would be able to stop this from happening? Had Crowley sent Dean their intentionally? Dean had been angry… angry about an argument with Crowley about whether or not to restart Armageddon. But why would that precipitate Crowley sending Dean after hunters under the pretense of killing demons?

She supposed there was only one person to ask.

She jumped up from the couch in her room and darted out the door, rushing past the demon guard posted there and heading for the stairs that would take her to Crowley's study on the floor above her, where hopefully she would be able to find the demon king. No one made any move to stop her, which didn't surprise her. It's not as if she was stupid enough to try to just sprint away from the clutches of the King of Hell.

She burst in without knocking once she reached the door. Crowley was at his desk, a glass of scotch in hand and his feet up on the desk. He looked up at her with mild curiosity when she entered.

"Veronica. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?"

"Did you send Dean after hunters on purpose?" she asked, wasting no time. If the King was surprised by her question, he didn't show it. He merely set his drink down and considered her.

"Now, what would possess you to ask that?"

"Because I just saw Dean butcher an entire group of hunters. _Human _hunters. Is that what you wanted?"

Crowley showed no reaction other than a subtle raising of his eyebrows.

"Why do you sound so shocked? I thought you were expecting something like this." He gestured at himself. "Demon, remember?"

"From what I've seen of you so far, you don't just do things because you _can_. What reason do you have for killing those hunters?"

"Hunters kill demons, I'm a demon… this isn't exactly rocket science, darling."

"Why did you tell Dean that it was a demon nest if you've got perfectly valid reasons for wiping those hunters out?"

"I fail to see how that's any of your business."

"Crowley!"

The demon simply rolled his eyes. "If this kind of thing is going to send you into a tizzy, you need to develop a stronger stomach, and fast. Dean's activities aren't typically G rated." Crowley snapped his fingers, and one of his goons ducked in. "Laharl, escort Veronica back to her room. I've business to attend to."

"You can stop him!" she said as Laharl grabbed her arm to force her out of Crowley's study. "Those people don't deserve to die."

"Goodbye, Veronica." Laharl took her out of the room, and with a wave of his hand, Crowley slammed the door in her face.

* * *

Crowley tried calling Dean. The Knight, unsurprisingly, did not answer.

He knew he was too late when he arrived in Springfield, but he still had the vain hope that he might be able to stop Dean – after all, if Veronica had envisioned it, then Crowley had the answer he'd been searching for. Dean was indeed quite capable of killing off members of his former species, apparently without any reason or regret.

He flicked his wrist, and the door of the bar opened. He stepped over a fractured salt line and was immediately assaulted by the smell of death. It was a scent that had once been commonplace and hadn't affected him, but since his brush with humanity, he found the odor foul and off-putting. He'd only taken three steps before his Italian loafers splashed into a pool of blood.

Crowley counted twelve bodies. Dean stood in the center of a messy half-circle of corpses, Blade dangling from his hand and soaked similarly to the rest of the hunter. Everything was red except for Dean's eyes, which were black.

Unexpectedly, the first thought that hit Crowley was, _Sweet Hell, what have I done?_

It wasn't necessarily the death of the hunters that jarred him. It was a pity, of course, but he couldn't bring himself to feel particularly dewy eyed over their passing when he was surely number one on the hunters' Most Wanted List. And if he wasn't, he should have been.

No, what was truly disturbing was the fact that Dean had murdered humans with absolutely no prompting.

"What is wrong with you?" Crowley asked before he could stop himself. Dean moved his head so that he could meet Crowley's eyes. "You didn't need to kill them."

Dean huffed out a laugh that sent a chill up Crowley's spine. "There's nothing wrong with me, Crowley." Dean stepped away from the pile of bodies, turning fully to face him. "I killed them because I could... 'cause I wanted to." He tensed when Dean lifted the Blade and placed it lightly against Crowley's shoulder. A warning. "You got a problem with that?"

With that bloody ass jaw near his neck, no, he didn't have much of a problem with anything.

"No problem at all," he said in a low voice.

Dean smiled.

And then he vanished.


	13. Glass Bones and Paper Skin

**Chapter 13 - Glass Bones and Paper Skin**

* * *

"WHERE. IS. CROWLEY."

Cas slashed across the demon's chest with his angel blade, ripping open his shirt and causing him to throw back his head and scream. He'd heard tell from another demon he'd captured in Omaha that this demon, Kal, was one of Crowley's assassins, one that was given assignments to take out targets with speed, efficiency, and stealth. Hopefully, that meant that Crowley had some level of trust in the demon.

Cas had seen nothing but dead ends for days. He hoped that Kal would give him something, anything to work with. He needed to find Crowley and Dean. No matter how many demons he had to tear through in order to do it, he would find them. He'd proven many times before that he wasn't above torture, and now was no different. There were no lengths he wouldn't go to in order to get Dean back.

When Kal's screams died away, he surprised Castiel by laughing. "You really think I'm afraid of you, angel? Of what you're gonna do to me?"

He put the tip of the angel blade to Kal's throat. Cas let the blue-white light of Heaven shine dangerously in his eyes. "You should be."

Kal tugged at the devil-trapped hand cuffs binding him to his chair, trying to shift away from the blade, but the tightness of his bindings allowed him very little maneuverability. "There's nothing you can even dream about that's worse than what Crowley'll do to me if he finds out I told you anything."

"I am intimately familiar with what Crowley is-" Cas broke off, unable to stop a haggard cough. He stifled it as quickly as he could, not wanting to appear weak. "I know what Crowley is capable of. I am far more creative than he is." Lie. But the demon needn't know that.

"Please. You can barely stand."

Cas jerked back the demon's head, fingers digging into his scalp. Cas carved down his collar bone. Kal hissed, eyes pinching shut. "I don't need to stand to coax the truth out of you."

"I'll die first. Just kill me, I'm not telling you shit."

Another slash, higher this time, dangerously close to the demon's jugular. _"You will tell me where they are," _Cas growled, feeling the familiar righteous anger rising up within him. Every instinct in him was screaming for him to smite the demon in front of him out of existence once and for all, but he resisted the temptation.

Kal laughed at him again, smiling with bloodstained teeth. "They, huh? Yeah, I figured as much... let's just drop the pretense that you want anything out of this other than your boyfriend's new place of residence. I heard you had a hard-on for Mr. Hunter of the Year, but I always thought the rumors were kind of exaggerated. Apparently not."

He punched the demon in the face, letting his rage get the best of him. "Bite me," Cas spat out, invoking Dean for a few moments. He would always be grateful to the older Winchester for teaching him the ins and outs of cursing and insults. "Tell me where they are. Tell me anything, and perhaps I will show you mercy."

"Yeah, well, even if you show me mercy, Crowley sure as hell won't. I'll pass." Blood dripped down the demon's chin as he glared defiantly at Castiel.

Cas drew his angel blade down Kal's chest, leaving a deep wound in its wake. Deep enough to hurt like hell, but not deep enough to kill the demon. "If you don't start talking, I'll be forced to break out the holy water."

"Don't threaten me with a good time, hotshot," he ground out, all while writhing under Cas's angel blade. "Why even bother with this, huh? Your pet hunter's long gone. He ain't anything you want to pal around with, not anymore."

This was good. The demon was talking - not giving him anything particularly useful to work with, but he was giving him more than outright refusal and snark. Cas dug the blade in deeper, retracing the line he'd just made. Kal howled in agony.

"Gah, FUCK!"

"Dean is my friend. I will find him. And you will help me."

"Your friend just murdered a whole gang of hunters. You really wanna find him? God, I'd love to see what he'd do to you. Pluck your fuckin' feathers out one at a time."

Cas halted, angel blade hovering over Kal's profusely bleeding chest. "What did you say?"

"Yeah, Heaven's former golden boy cleaned out a whole group of hunters in Springfield, painted the town red. Dean Winchester's _gone_, you dumb feathered fuck. Gone, gone, gone, and you're never getting him back. That Mark's done shit to him that can't be reversed. He's a monster, just like me, and you can't-"

The demon broke off. Cas's angel blade was now buried in his sternum. He made a choking, gargling noise, spitting blood up. Orange flashed underneath his skin. With a final gasp, Kal died. Cas jerked out his sword when the demon was vanquished. It was obvious that he was never going to get a location from the demon, and Kal's words had angered him enough that he'd been driven to finish him. He would have to find another demon, a weaker one, one that was more afraid of him than of Crowley.

Cas stood there in the abandoned barn he'd repurposed as a makeshift interrogation room, staring at the fresh corpse in front of him. So Dean had killed hunters. He supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised, but he couldn't help but be deeply disconcerted by the news. For Dean to kill hunters... why? Why would he even bother? Castiel had been aware that Crowley had likely been sending him out on missions to deal with the remaining Abaddon loyalists if the demonic death toll was any indication, but hunters? Why would Crowley be worried about the hunting community now?

He sighed deeply, and the sigh led into a hard coughing fit. The world seemed to melt around him, and his head became light. He stumbled into a nearby wall, feeling the warm tang of his own blood on his lips. He stifled another round of rasping, deep coughs with his sleeve, the muscles in his abdomen screaming in protest, having been ripped and torn from the weeks of constant hacking.

He was still dying. As they said, there was nothing new under the sun.

He thought of seeking out another one of Crowley's demons to interrogate, but decided he ought to check in on Sam. He hadn't seen the hunter in two days.

But first, he needed to go to Springfield and see just how much damage Dean had done.

* * *

A human can go eleven days without sleep before they cease to function. Sam had flirted with that incredibly literal deadline before, and he'd barely been able to come back from it. He'd learned to value sleep since then. More now than ever before, he lamented its absence.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept for more than three hours. Dean had been dead for weeks. Missing for weeks. The wound was still ripped open and bleeding, and no amount of alcohol could suture it closed. Not that he didn't try. Repeatedly. He only left the bunker to get more of hunter's little helper, as Dean had called it.

Dean. Dean, who was still a demon… and still MIA.

Sam only went to his bedroom to change his clothes, which he didn't do often enough, if the musty smell of himself was any indication. He lived in the library, on the computer, trying to track Dick Roman's trail, trying to find who had gotten the brunt of his possessions after the domestic terrorist attack on SucroCorps several years earlier that tragically ended his life.

Domestic terrorism. Guess that's what they called saving the entire world in the news.

Dick Roman, unfortunately, kept his legal affairs incredibly private. Whether that was Dick Roman himself who made sure of that or the Leviathan who had taken up his position, Sam wasn't sure. Hacking into the SucroCorps, GeoThrive, and RRE external servers had led to nothing pertaining to the possessions of their former CEO. He'd wasted days following just that lead, and he had no way to access the company servers unless he was in Chicago, in one of the buildings.

He was decent behind a computer, but he didn't exactly have an extreme talent for it, and his progress was slow. He found himself wishing that all of their computer savvy friends weren't dead or gone. What he wouldn't give to have Ash, Kevin, or Charlie here, or even Frank.

What he really needed was a copy of Dick's will, but Sam couldn't find out who represented him to save his life. The guy had a battalion of lawyers, naturally, and a specific firm that they hailed from, but he couldn't figure out who handled his personal affairs. Roman had no wife and no surviving children, he was an only child, and his father had passed away in 2008.

The only living relative he could find of Dick Roman's that was still alive was his mother. She lived in Florida, in a relatively nice retirement home in Fort Lauderdale. It was the only lead he had on what might have happened to Dick's things following his demise, but it was thin, and he wasn't sure if it was enough to warrant driving thousands of miles for.

He'd lost track of the days. He marked the passage of time by when Cas visited, and Sam knew it was for the explicit reason to check on him and make sure he ate and showered. Cas tried to coax him into sleep, but he rarely succeeded. He knew the angel was close to putting him under another angel-induced slumber spell in order to get him the rest his body needed.

Cas looked worse each time he visited. He knew that the angel didn't have long, no matter his repeated insistence that he was fine. Sam didn't even want to think about what he would do when Cas… when he finally couldn't fight anymore. Cas was pretty much the only thing keeping him off of the ledge, the only family he had left.

It was like after Dean had been dragged down to Hell. Then, it was Ruby who kept him breathing. Ironic that he now was relying on an angel rather than a demon. Sam was always intended to be the dark one, with Dean being the servant of Heaven, the _good_ one... yet now his brother was a demon, and Sam had an angel resting on his shoulder.

Cas was searching the world over for signs of Dean or Crowley. Though the angel hadn't said anything directly, he had stated that he had been 'questioning' demons – which they both knew meant that Cas was torturing them for information. Sam couldn't find it within himself to judge Cas for it. It wasn't like he hadn't done for worse for Dean before.

Cas was falling apart at the seams. Sam knew it. Cas certainly knew it, but it didn't seem to matter to the angel. The only thing that mattered to him was finding Dean and finding the Horseman Rings.

It was a late afternoon when Cas returned with something other than a dejected, "I am still looking." Sam didn't know how long he'd been awake for, but he was fairly sure it had been several days. It was easy to lose your grip on time, on reality, even, when you were in the bunker, buried underground with no windows.

Sam heard a flutter of wings behind him. He was still getting used to the fact that Cas had his wings back. He closed his laptop lid shut, rubbing his fists against his eyes. "Hey Cas," he croaked, his voice hoarse from its long disuse. He could hear the angel's ragged breathing. He didn't turn to look at him, not wanting to see how much worse he'd gotten since the last time he'd seen him.

"Hello, Sam. Have you-" Cas broke off into a coughing fit that made Sam wince. "Have you found anything more on Dick Roman?"

"I have no idea who inherited his things after you and Dean killed him. I know a lot of his money went to a lot of different charities, but other than that, I can't find what actually happened to any of his physical possessions. I'm working on it." Sam sighed heavily, running a hand through the tangled mess his hair had become. "What about you?"

"I…" Cas cleared his throat. "I am unsure if this is something you wish to hear."

"I'm kind of numb to the Earth shattering revelations at this point," he replied in a monotone. Sam turned in his seat, facing Cas head on. Mistake. The angel was steadying himself on the wall. His eyes were bright and feverish, and his skin held a thin sheen of sweat. The bones of his face seemed to stand out in sharp relief against sallow skin. His trench coat hung on him like never before.

"I have found… evidence that Dean is on the move," Cas said, gulping. "And he is killing. Frequently. Violently."

Sam swallowed. It made sense. He still didn't like to hear it. "Okay." He took a deep breath. "Who exactly is Dean killing?"

"At first, demons. I'm of the belief that they were Abaddon loyalists. Presumably he killed them on Crowley's orders."

The idea of Dean willingly serving Crowley made him sick to his stomach. "At first?

"There were a group of hunters in Springfield. They were all killed several days ago. The salt lines were broken, and there were sulfur deposits. Given the…" Cas stifled a cough with his hand. "Given the violence with which they were killed, I would say it was Dean."

Sam grimaced, shaking his head. Dean had killed hunters. Their comrades. He could hardly believe it, but was something like that so out of the scope of a demon's capabilities? He'd toed the line between man and demon himself… and he knew that violence and power could become like a drug.

"Does this help us at all? I mean, is there any kind of pattern between all these kills? Maybe some way we could track him?"

"It appears random. I still believe that he's got some kind of home base he's returning to. When Crowley wants something done, Dean leaves and accomplishes it."

"But it doesn't explain why Dean killed those hunters. They posed no threat to Crowley."

"All hunters pose a threat to Crowley," Cas reasoned.

"Considering I'm the only hunter on the planet with the equipment to actually kill him?" Sam said, referring to Ruby's knife. "No, they're really not. Crowley's never tried to wipe out hunters before. I don't know why he would start now."

"The Mark and Blade is a very volatile combination. Perhaps Crowley is just attempting to feed his bloodlust."

"Like feeding rats to a snake."

"Essentially, yes."

They were silent for a moment. Sam ducked his head, putting his hands around the back of his neck and closing his eyes, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together in some kind of coherent order. There had to be some way to use this to find Dean. "There's gotta be some kind of spell we can use... did you take any of the sulfur Dean left? I bet if I searched through the Letters' files, I could find some tracking enchantment that uses a demon's specific sulfur."

Cas nodded, taking a vial out of his pocket and depositing it on the table next to Sam. "It may come in handy in the future."

Sam picked it up and examined it. It was hard to process that Dean had left this, surreal almost. "Okay. Well, it's a decent place to start, I guess. It's better than nothing."

"Yes, better than nothing," Cas agreed, though Sam didn't detect much hope in his tone. "So, you haven't found anything that could help us locate the Horsemen rings? Anything at all?"

"No descendants. No siblings. No close friends. The only person I can find in the entire damn world that Dick Roman had any kind of relation to is his mother, but she's in some old folks home in Fort Lauderdale called Golden Living, and pre-Leviathan Dick didn't really seem like much of a mama's boy, so I don't think she's going to turn anything up."

"We should at least speak to her."

"Florida's a long way away, Cas, it'll take me days to drive-"

"It'll take us seconds if we fly," Cas interrupted him. Sam immediately shook his head.

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not making you exert yourself anymore than you already have."

"Sam, I will be-"

"Cas, don't even try to tell me you'll be fine. You look like you're on death's door. Your Grace is burning you out more and more by the second, and every time you try to tap into it, it just takes more out of you. If I can't find a way to help you live, than I'm sure as hell not gonna help you die."

Sam seemed to have hit a nerve, if the speed with which the angel approached him and the look of anger in his eyes was any indication. "I'm afraid that's not your choice, Sam."

Before Sam could say more, two clammy fingers were pressed into his forehead, and he was gone. He felt like someone had forcibly sucked all of the air out of his body. He lost track of himself for a few frightening moments, succumbing to blackness. Quickly enough, he was back in his proper senses and standing on dry, dead grass. The air smelled like salt, and the sun assaulted his eyes, which had become so used to indoor lighting.

He heard a sharp gasp from next to him. Once he'd adjusted to the sudden change in surroundings, Sam registered that Cas was on his knees next to him, doubled over in agony. Sam dropped down next to the angel in an instant, hand on his back. "Cas? _Damn it_, Cas! I told you not to do this."

"I - I can't just-" Cas coughed hard, blood splattering on the brown-yellow grass. Sam could feel the angel's pervasive heat through the back of his trench coat, the fever seeming to surround him like a pulsing aura of _sick_.

"Can't just what? Not run yourself into the ground? Not treat everything like a kamikaze mission?"

"I'm going to die no matter what," Castiel said roughly, lifting his head. "I'm not going to let my terminal Grace keep me from stopping another apocalypse, or saving Dean. If I can accomplish that much, I'll die satisfied. Hell, I'll welcome death."

Sam pursed his lips and said, "God... you've spent way too much time around Dean and I."

"Perhaps. But... I'd like to think that I'm better for it."

"That's up for debate." Sam helped Cas to his feet. They were just a few feet from a green sign emblazoned with gold letters that spelled out 'Golden Living Center'. A three story white-washed building with long windows making up the walls of most of the first floor stood before them. "I guess we're doing this, then?"

"Yes. What is this woman's name?"

"Lorraine Roman. She's seventy four." The two of them headed for the front doors of the old folks home, Sam slowing his pace so Cas could keep up without overexerting himself. Sam was sure he would never become accustomed to seeing Cas so unsteady on his feet.

"Is she senile?"

"I checked her medical records, and it doesn't look like it. She's just old."

"That makes things more difficult."

"Yeah. What covers are we going with here?"

"FBI agents?"

"Why would the FBI care about Dick Roman's inheritance?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Uh..." Sam halted just in front of the door. "Historical society. We're looking for the Horsemen rings because we want to put them in a museum, or something."

"Good enough." The two of them pushed through into the lobby. An electronic bell dinged overhead, signifying their entrance. The white scrub clad attendant lifted her head, giving them a pleasant smile when she noticed them.

"Good afternoon," she greeted.

"Hi," Sam said, heading for the desk with Cas at his heels. The young woman's eyes immediately went to Castiel, his illness blatantly obvious. Sam cleared his throat, trying to turn her attention back to him. "Uh, we're here to see Lorraine Roman."

"Are you friends or family?" she asked with a slight tilt of her head.

"Ah. Not exactly. We're from the Illinois Historical Society, and we're here to speak to her about an artifact her son might have been in possession of before he passed away."

The woman pursed her lips. "I'll ask Lorraine if she's feeling up to visitors, but I won't make any promises."

"Thank you," Sam said, the desk attendant scurried off down a nearby hallway. Cas leaned heavily on the counter. Sam put a hand on his back. "Do you need to sit down?" he asked.

"No," Cas said flatly, rising back to his full height, though he wavered as he straightened his shoulders. "What will we do if this woman won't speak to us?"

"I don't know. We'll figure it out."

The nurse returned shortly. "Ms. Roman says she has no problem seeing you. Just sign into the guest registry, and I'll show you to her room."

"Great. Thanks." Sam leaned down and signed the first alias that came to mind, and then handed the pen to Cas, who signed his name as Miles Cyrus. Sam had to suppress a snort of amusement – Cas was still using pop star aliases, apparently.

"I don't mean to be rude, but I'm going to have to ask if you're contagious," the nurse asked, looking at Cas.

Cas frowned, and Sam stepped in. "He's not contagious. It's a, uh, genetic disease. Chronic, but not infectious."

She seemed worried, but she nodded nonetheless. "Alright. Follow me."

They tailed the nurse down the hallway she'd just returned from, and they stopped in front of a wooden door marked with the golden nameplate 'L. Roman'. The nurse knocked twice, and a quiet 'come in' came from within the room. The nurse opened the door and let them. "Try not to be too long, we're serving dinner in about twenty minutes."

"We won't be long," Sam promised. The door shut behind them, leaving them with Dick's mother. She wasn't exactly what he expected; she sat in a wheelchair near the window, her hands folded over her lap, but her eyes were bright and alert and she was well kept, her makeup done and her hair immaculate. "Hello, Ms. Roman."

Lorraine craned her head slightly, giving them a smile. "Hello. The nurse said you're from the historical society?"

Cas promptly shoved Sam against the door, drawing his angel blade. "Leviathan," he growled.

Lorraine rose to her feet in an instant, chuckling. "Well that didn't take long. Hi there, Castiel. It's been too long."

"Damn it," Sam swore. "I thought all of you had been wiped out?"

"'Cut off the head, and the body will flounder'," Lorraine quoted. "Oh, it floundered alright – but not all of us are dead. Most of us, but not all. You can't completely squash the Leviathan. There's too many of us. I have to say, I didn't expect a visit from you two, of all people. Why did you want to talk to this old hag, anyway?"

"We're not playing twenty questions with you." Sam drew Ruby's knife. It wasn't exactly a knife made for sawing off heads, but it would do in a pinch.

"Well, you wanted to know something, didn't you? And anything that Dick's dear old mother knows, I know." She rapped a knuckled on the side of her head. "They don't call it brain food for nothing."

"Why would you tell us anything?" Cas demanded.

"Why wouldn't I? It's not like you came here to get rid of me, that much is obvious. Maybe if I tell you something, you'll let me continue that living thing I like so much. I'd rather not end up as a head in a box, floating down the intercoastal waterway. I've had a cozy gig here, ever since the boss assigned me to this place to get Dick Roman's actual mother out of the way without drawing attention. I don't want to give it up. So, how about we play tea time, I tell you what you want to know, and then you leave me the hell alone and never, ever come back?"

"What, so you can keep feeding on people? Not happening," Sam responded.

"Oh, calm down. I don't eat them until they're about to die off their own accord. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I help along the natural process – it's great luck that you humans are so squishy and fragile. It's practically an all-you-can-eat buffet around here," Lorraine countered with a roll of her eyes.

Sam and Cas exchanged a look. Neither of them wanted to deal with the monster – they'd had more than enough of the Leviathan to last them both a life time – but if it was the only way to get the location of the Horsemen rings, then they were going to have to swallow their discomfort.

Sam sheathed Ruby's knife. Cas didn't put his angel blade away, but he did lower it. "If you say something we don't like, we will kill you."

"You can't kill me, but sure, whatever. Now, what do you want to know?"

"The Horsemen rings," Cas said. "Do you know anything about them?"

"I'm assuming you mean where they are?" the Leviathan asked for clarification.

"Yeah," Sam said.

"Not a clue."

Sam gritted his teeth. "Do you know if Dick had them or not?"

"Probably. I know he had a few of his heavies raid Bobby Singer's house before they burned it to the ground, apparently they had a fairly good haul, from what I heard."

"Did you hear anything else?" Sam pressed.

"About the Horsemen rings? No."

"This is pointless," Cas growled. "It doesn't know anything." He lifted the blade again, but Sam halted him.

"Wait, okay?" He turned his eyes back to Lorraine. "Look, when we took out Dick, someone must have gotten the stuff he had in his possession. Does he have anyone that his stuff would've gone to after he was killed? I'm guessing you weren't in his will?"

"Pre-Leviathan Dick just shoved this old broad in a glorified hospice joint and was done with it. No chance he was leaving her anything."

"Who got his things, then?" Sam asked.

"His daughter, probably."

Sam's brow furrowed at that. "Daughter? Dick had a daughter?"

"Illegitimate. She was born in '98, so she should be about seventeen now. Her name's Sadie or something. He paid child support on her. I don't know if the original Dick Roman gave a damn about the kid or not, but if he did, he might've written her into his inheritance – if you're looking for the rings, that's your best shot."

Another glance between Sam and Cas. The angel seemed just as dubious as he was. "You're being awfully helpful," Sam commented.

"Like I said, I like it here. Now, why don't you do a girl a favor, let me enjoy my golden years with my head still attached?"

"You're eating people!"

"People who were going to die in a few days with or without my help," the Leviathan reminded him. "I'm practically mercy killing them." Sam couldn't help but wonder why no one had noticed the elderly folks vanishing, and made a mental not to investigate later.

"Eating them alive is hardly what I call mercy," Cas snapped.

"What are you going to do, then? Kill me?"

Sam frowned. "No."

Cas shot Sam a surprised look. "We're not?"

"We don't have time, and there's no way we could kill her discretely in a place like this. But if Dick Roman's daughter doesn't have the rings, we'll be back for you," Sam said, directing the last statement at the Leviathan, who rolled her eyes.

"Whatever, meat sack. Can you leave now?"

Sam opened the door, not taking his eyes off of the Leviathan. He and Cas slowly backed out of the room before shutting the door again. Cas turned to him. "We're not actually going to let her live, are we?"

"No. But we're going to have to save killing her for later – we've got bigger problems right now."

Cas nodded. "Yes… but now, at least, we have a lead."

"Yeah. Here's hoping it's not another dead end."


	14. The Bigger They Are

**Chapter 14 - The Bigger They Are...**

* * *

Dean was getting worse.

So much worse.

Any illusion of control Crowley might've had over the Knight was shattered in the week following Dean's slaughter of his former comrades; Dean was absent far more than he was present, and Crowley found him entering the compound at all manner of late hours, covered in blood and with a look of dark satisfaction that made Crowley's stomach turn, as it seemed so foreign on the once-human's face.

He would ask Dean where he had been, what he had done. He never received any answers. The best he got was Dean shrugging and saying, "Just taking care of a few things." More often than not, the new demon just ignored him completely, heading to his room without a second glance at him. Crowley only found out about his activities from Veronica's visions. To put it mildly, Dean's tastes had expanded far beyond just killing demons.

Dean had broken his leash, and Crowley didn't have the slightest idea how to get it back around the Winchester's neck. The fact that he was bunking down with a Knight of Hell who was incredibly volatile and apparently held very little interest in obeying him had him constantly on edge. He was distracted, paranoid as all hell and essentially leaving Crowley with the desire to crawl out of his stolen skin.

What would be the tipping point, hmm? What would make Dean decide that Crowley was more trouble than he was worth? And more importantly, when? Every second he spent around the other demon, he felt as though he was treading through a mine field. What would set Dean off? One move, one jab with the First Blade, and he was gone. Dead. Finished.

He'd unleashed a beast upon the world unwittingly, and worst of all, he had no way to put him down – Dean was invincible, after all, at least at present. Crowley was sure there were weapons out there capable of dispatching Dean, but none were readily available to him, and chances were, by the time he managed to track one of them down, it would already be far too late.

When Crowley had first brought the newly demonized hunter home with him and exposed him to his subjects, he had told them that Dean was the newest ace up his sleeve, a bomb ready to go off, and Crowley held the detonator. It was a delicious irony. The Righteous Man himself, turned into an unbeatable weapon of mass destruction for the very forces he'd been fighting against his whole life.

But in reality, Crowley had been lying to both his minions and himself. All he had really wanted was a companion. A partner. A friend. He'd ended up with a monster that was beyond his control.

His entire world could be ripped from him any moment, and needless to say, he felt like the threads of his sanity were fraying rather quickly. Crowley had clawed and scraped his way back to the throne, worked so hard to attempt to restore his kingdom to its former glory, and now Dean bloody Winchester had the power to rip it all to shreds with one swipe of that damn jaw bone.

He was losing his grip on things. He felt unsure of himself, now more so than ever. He was drinking more, actually with the intent to blur his thoughts rather than just to have the crisp flavor of Craig in his mouth. Unfortunately, given his species, he had to drink his way through several gallons to get himself even remotely buzzed.

Worst of all, the cravings were returning.

Not that they hadn't been there the entire time – but they were stronger now. Not only because of his constant state of subdued panic, but Veronica's presence as well. Having that supply of human blood always so near, it was quite the temptation.

He needed an escape, and he knew that particular red liquid was the perfect way out of his current reality.

But he wouldn't give in.

He _couldn't_.

* * *

Something was wrong with Crowley.

Granted, Ronnie had only known him for a little over two weeks, but even with her limited experience with the demon, she could see that something was up with him. Ever since Dean had murdered the hunters in Illinois, he'd been off. Dean was out of control, that much was made clear by the horrific visions she was having of Dean every night. She could only assume that was the cause of Crowley's demeanor change, which meant that the demon truly hadn't wanted Dean to kill those hunters.

He was distracted. Cagey, almost. Especially around her, though she couldn't begin to wonder why. She was the only person he interacted with who wasn't a demon, so for him to seem practically nervous around her was puzzling. Still, his visits to her when he collected her visions were becoming longer, and their conversations sometimes extended for hours at a time. There was a whole world and history of supernatural lore that she was trying to catch up on, and Crowley never seemed to have any issue explaining things to her.

Eventually he gave her a series of books – several large stacks of them, actually.

"Road so far, bla bla bla. Let's call it a prequel to your current reality. Tell me when you're done with those, and I'll send a laptop up so you can read the last forty-four unpublished books in the series."

"These look like campy horror novels," she'd argued, looking at the cover of the first one, _The Family Business, _with an arched eyebrow.

"Well, given the fact that your life has recently become a campy horror novel, I'd say it's worth the read, wouldn't you?"

She couldn't very well argue with that.

So, she began reading, and soon she realized that it was the Winchesters' story from 2005 on... and it was one hell of a story, without a doubt. The Dean she found between the pages of Carver Edlund's novels didn't jive with the demon she was currently living with (and trying desperately to avoid). No, the Dean in the _Supernatural_ series was a hero. Brave and kind, wanting nothing more than to keep people and safe, hunt monsters, and protect his younger brother.

Oh, how things had changed.

Being deprived of much else to do, she was tearing through the relatively short books with speed. Within a few days' time, she was already onto the twenty third book, _In My Time of Dying. _She was nearly finished with the book when a knock came at her door. It was relatively late at night. She glanced at the grandfather clock near her bed. It was nearly three in the morning.

"Come in," she called, setting _In My Time of Dying _down on the coffee table. She sat up. Her door opened, revealing Crowley's familiar figure, which was shrouded in the darkness of the hallway.

"Hello, darling," he greeted. "Busy?"

She gave him a withering look. "Am I ever?"

"Does that mean I can come in?"

"If I said no, would it stop you?"

"Fair point," Crowley acknowledged. He entered the room, stepping into the light and closing the door behind him. "You're up late."

"So are you."

"I don't sleep," Crowley replied, leaning against the wall. He nodded at the open book sitting on the coffee table. "Enjoying yourself?"

"The writing's kind of weak. Carver Edlund's no Stephen King. But the premise, the characters… the books aren't too bad," Ronnie said. "I'm still wondering where you come in."

"If I'm not mistaken, my first appearance is in _Time is On My Side. _You've got a ways to go before that, unfortunately."

"Carver Edlund, the guy who wrote these… he was a prophet, wasn't he? The prophet that came before me?"

"The prophet _before_ the prophet before you, actually. He presumably died sometime in 2010," Crowley answered.

"So who's recorded everything that's happened since then? The prophet in between us?"

"I'm afraid Kevin wasn't gifted with Winchester vision. More of a reader, less of a writer," Crowley informed her.

"You knew him, then?"

"Intimately," Crowley said, not missing a beat. A smirk ghosted over his lips. "Unfortunately, Kevin and I didn't have as functional a working relationship as the two of us. He liked to play hard to get."

"I don't even know if I want you to elaborate on that statement," Ronnie said, pulling the quilt she was currently covered in tighter around herself.

"Suffice it to say, deciding to come with me off your own volition was a wise choice," Crowley told her.

"I guess Kevin wasn't content to be your slave?"

"Oh, you're not my slave, Veronica. I much prefer the term 'indentured servant'."

"Yeah, except indentured servants get to be free once they've paid their dues. I'm not sensing anything that happy in my future," Ronnie said dismally, not bothering to keep the accusation out of her voice.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's only one way out of being a prophet, and that's in a body bag."

"I figured that much out for myself, thanks," Ronnie replied tersely.

"Musn't snivel, Veronica. Your fate might not be the sunniest in the world, but you could still make the most of it. You should be grateful that I was the one who found you, rather than Castiel and Samantha."

"And why should I be grateful that the King of Hell found me instead of the good guys?"

"Because the 'good guys' would use you up until there wasn't a thing left. Until you were six feet under, or worse. And trust me, love, it can get far, far worse. Just ask dear old Kevin." Crowley snorted. "Oh, wait. You can't. He's dead."

Ronnie sighed, trying to look unaffected, though she did feel a thrill of worry over what had happened to her predecessor. "There's no use arguing over it. Now are you going to tell me why you randomly showed up at my door in the middle of the night, or are you going to keep me guessing?"

Crowley didn't offer any response. He sank down into one of the heavily stuffed armchairs that sat opposite her. He crossed his legs, drumming his fingers on the side of his shoe. "Drink?" he asked at length.

"I'm not much of a drinker," she said. "And you didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine." Crowley snapped his fingers. A bottle of amber liquid appeared on the table next to her book, alongside two tumblers. "Also, I don't buy for a second that you don't drink. I'm sure you need something to soften that PTSD, and you don't strike me as the type to go to therapy, or get a prescription for some kind of smiley pill, so…" Crowley grabbed the bottle, which was already open and waiting to be poured.

"I don't have PTSD," Ronnie replied stiffly. "And I'm a chaplain, remember?"

"I can say with upmost certainty that God doesn't care if you have a glass of the good stuff." Crowley filled one of the glasses with three fingers of what she determined to be scotch, then filled the other with half as much.

"With certainty, huh?"

"God doesn't care about anything, let alone what you kill your liver with," Crowley responded.

"I'm inclined to disagree."

"Of course you are."

Ronnie frowned. "In moderation, there's nothing inherently wrong with a drink now and then. Problem is, most people are bad at saying no to something that makes them feel good."

"You're preaching to the choir," Crowley muttered. He offered her the glass with the smaller amount of scotch. "Come on. Indulge. A little sin's good for the soul."

"Says the guy with no soul," she countered.

"Don't pretend you don't want to fog things up a bit, blur the memories. Even for a little while."

His eyes sparkled in the low light of her bedroom, setting off the green of his irises. Crowley was in his element, here. He was a demon, after all. Temptation was his purpose, his stock and trade. She took the glass from him, glaring at him all the while.

"You're a bastard, you know that?"

He grinned at her. "Oh, believe me, I know." He leaned back, picking up his own glass and promptly draining over half of it.

Ronnie sipped at her own drink tentatively. She grimaced at the taste, the uncomfortable burn in her throat. "Wow. Um. That's…" She tried not to gag. "What is this?"

"Glenncraig. Aged thirty years. My personal brand. Been drinking it since I was just a lad," he told her. "Why the face? The flavor's smooth, crisp, with just the faintest aftertaste of tobacco. It's the perfect pick-me-up."

"If you say so." Ronnie sat the glass back down. "And lad? I thought you were British, not Scottish."

"Packaging is British. Me? I was of Gaelic heritage, yes."

"When you were human."

"Mhmm."

"What were you like?" she asked with a slight tilt of her head.

"Pardon?"

"As a human," she clarified.

He took so long to respond that she began to wonder if he was going to answer her at all. Eventually, after another sip of his scotch, he said, "Pathetic. I was pathetic."

"Don't overwhelm me with the details."

"Well, the whole story is very long, sordid, bloody, and needlessly complicated. The hero is dashing and compelling, of course, but still, it's a tale that's better left untold."

"Alright, tell me a different one, then."

"Looking for a bed time story, Veronica?"

"Ronnie," she corrected him. "And I want to know what's been up with you lately."

"What's been up with me?" Crowley repeated with an arched eyebrow. "Nothing's been up with me. I'm peachy."

"We both know that's a lie," Ronnie replied flatly.

"Do we?" he countered, seeming to grow serious. "I could convince you of even the most ridiculous falsehood if I wanted to. Lucifer may have been the Prince of Lies, but I'm the King of them. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can see through me, because you can't. Let me make that abundantly clear."

Ronnie just looked at him. "You done?" Crowley made an irritated face. Before he could retort, she continued with, "It's Dean, isn't it? You're worried."

"Dean's fine," Crowley snapped.

"I see him at night. You know I do. I've had front row tickets to everything he's been doing, and I know none of the stuff he's done since he killed those hunters has been on your orders. You're losing control of him, and that scares the crap out of you."

"Nothing scares me," Crowley stated, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Only people who are stupid or suicidal are fearless, Crowley. You're definitely not stupid, and I don't think you're suicidal. So that means you're afraid. You should be. I'm terrified of Dean, of what he's capable of. Of what he might do."

"I haven't-" Crowley broke off, pinning his tongue between his teeth as he seemed to weigh his next words carefully. "If Dean gets out of hand, I'll deal with him. You needn't worry your little head about it," he said slowly, carefully.

"He's already out of control. It's only a matter of time before he turns around and bites you-"

"You think I don't know that!?" the demon exclaimed, suddenly up and out of his chair. Ronnie watched as the King began pacing agitatedly in front of her. "He won't listen to a word I say. Hell forbid that after all I've done for him, I expect a modicum of respect, of _loyalty_. Who went to him when he was out in the cold and on his own, hmm? Who took him under his wing when he most needed it? ME. I got him that Mark, I gave him direction, a – a purpose! And when he died, I pulled him back. I gave him a chance at a new life, a better one."

"You call being a demon a better life?" Ronnie interrupted.

"It was better for me!" Crowley burst out.

Ronnie stared at Crowley. How was she supposed to respond to that? To an admission - albeit a subtle one - that whatever life Crowley had lived as a human had somehow been worse than literal Hell.

"Being human is messy, needy, and above all, it is endlessly _painful_. I gave him an escape from that. And all I wanted in return was a companion. Someone to ride off into the sunset with. Is that so wrong?"

"You wanted someone to care," she surmised.

Crowley stilled, his back to her. "Yes," he said at length. "I suppose I did."

"You really think erasing Dean's humanity was the best way to go about that?"

"I didn't think he would lose everything in the change! Cain was different, so I thought perhaps Dean would be as well. He didn't go to Hell, not recently, anyway. He didn't have the humanity carved out of him, not like the others. I thought he would still be _Dean_."

"So basically, it seemed like a good idea at the time?"

Crowley turned to her, frustrated. "If you're going to give me some holier-than-thou speech, you can save it."

"I'm not going to give you a speech. I'm not going to waste my time telling you things that you already know. But I am going to say this: I'm seeing visions of you for a reason."

"What are you playing at?"

"I'm saying that God cares about what's happening right now. Maybe He's got a plan in the works. And if I'm seeing visions of you specifically, that can only mean you're a part of it."

Crowley stared at her for a few tense seconds, his expression inscrutable. "You really think He gives a damn, don't you?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think, I know. That's what faith is."

"Faith," Crowley mused. "Over the past few centuries, I've thought a lot about faith. About God. About what it all means. I'm very old and very smart, a combination that generally leads to an unintentional philosopher of sorts... and I've discovered a few things about faith."

Ronnie rose to her feet. She abandoned the quilt she was swaddled in, and she approached him, possessed by the sudden urge to be near him. When only a foot separated them, Crowley backed away, a dim kind of panic in his eyes. He swallowed, licking his lips. There it was. That nervousness. It was only when she got close, but why?

"And?" she asked softly, eyes not leaving his.

Crowley swallowed again, his nostrils flaring. "Faith is a farce. There's no such thing." He seemed transfixed on the exposed skin of her neck. "What people have, it's not faith in God." He flicked his eyes back to hers with effort. "It's fear of Hell."

"I don't fear Hell."

"Everyone fears Hell," he argued. "Every human that's ever drawn breath fears Hell."

"Instead of fear of Hell, I have hope for Heaven. I've been working my whole life to get up top; why worry about ending up on the down escalator?"

Crowley let out a harsh bark of a laugh. "Do you even understand how easily I could pull that eternal paradise out from under you? If I wanted your soul, I could take it, and no one would lift a finger to stop me. Not God, not any of His angels. No one."

"I don't believe that," she said simply.

Crowley grabbed her by the shoulders, a disconcerting look in his gaze, almost as if he was... hungry? He pulled her closer, though it seemed that it pained him to do so. "Do I have to prove it to you?" he asked lowly. "I could drag your soul down to Hell and roast it on a spit for the rest of eternity if I wanted to. I could peel away every layer of you until there's nothing left. And you know what? No one could stop me."

Although everything about Crowley's current demeanor was threatening, she didn't find herself feeling afraid.

There was something wrong with the King; she'd seen how other demons acted. Seen how Dean acted. And Crowley's behavior did not fall in line with that, with a large majority of what a demon should be. Cain had said that Crowley had a flicker of a soul inside of him, because of some attempted curing. Just what had the Winchesters done to him? Had they reignited some kind of spark of humanity in him? Was that why he was so different from the rest of his kind?

"Do you want to?" she asked abruptly.

"Want to what?"

"Take my soul to Hell."

Crowley's face was impassive for a moment, and then he scowled. "No." He released her, backing away and turning so he wasn't facing her. "You're too valuable to waste. Precious cargo and all that."

She could see his composure slowly returning, his shoulders losing some of their tense draw. "Right." Ronnie knew that if she wanted any final honesty out of Crowley, she needed to press him now before he either left or regained the full extent of his iron clad self-control.

"Can you cure a demon?"

Crowley whirled on her in an instant. "Excuse me?"

"Curing a demon-"

"Where did you hear that?" Crowley demanded.

"In my visions. I heard Cain mention it in the visions I had before you kidnapped me."

"Why are you asking?" Crowley asked sharply.

"I'm, uh. Just curious."

"No," Crowley said tightly. "There's no curing a sickness that deep."

With that, the demon went to the door. He slipped out, slamming it behind him, leaving Veronica alone with a barely touched bottle of Glenncraig.

* * *

Crowley broke.

He stood behind his desk, staring at the leather bag that waited for him there.

It was just a pick-me-up. A one-time thing. He wasn't about to go and get himself addicted again.

_But that's the very problem, isn't it? You already _are _an addict. A sober junkie is still a junkie. You know it's never going to be just one._

He closed his eyes, shoving back the traitorous thoughts. He wasn't a junkie. He was a king, THE king. He could control himself. He was strong enough, now. He had accepted the burden of his humanity, and he had learned to cope with it. He'd adjusted – no, he'd _adapted_. That was the whole reason he had been able to survive as long as he had. When circumstances turned less than favorable, he was able to change accordingly.

He wouldn't let the blood destroy him again. It was just a short escape. If it steadied him, if it helped him to see straight, if only for a short time, then why should he refuse it?

One little shot. That was all.

Crowley slid off his overcoat, placing it on the back of his chair. His suit coat followed after it, leaving him in his shirt sleeves. He sank down into his leather chair. He loosened his tie, sliding it out of his collar and placing it on his desk. He laid a hand on the bag on the surface of his desk, and for a long moment, he just looked at it.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of the cliff. This was the drug that had caused him to almost lose his kingdom. Lose everything. Reduced him to such a pathetic mess that he'd been forced to go to the damn Winchesters for help. He'd nearly drowned in the red tide before. He played a dangerous game, flirting with his blasted humanity.

But part of him knew it was already too late. Due to his heightened demonic senses, he could smell it, the sweet, heady, iron scent of it. He opened the bag with hands that were trembling with need. He pulled out one of the blood bags he'd stolen from Reno General, laying it out on the table. He then removed the pack of syringes.

He was only going to use one.

Crowley licked his lips.

He filled them all.

He hated this, truly. Hated that he ached for the rush of humanity, of emotion – for the feeling of that tiny flame inside of him battling bravely against the tempest of his demonic nature, if only for a moment. It was indescribable. And the more stolen blood that disappeared into his veins, the brighter and hotter that flame grew.

During his binge in the spring, he'd been approaching bon-fire levels, with the amount he was throwing down, and it had been blissful. Painful, but blissful. He must've had a masochistic side to himself, because human blood was not a drug that brought only pleasure. No, there was an agony in emotion, in feelings, more specifically in _regret_.

Three centuries of sin was no trouble for a demon. For someone with a soul, with a conscience, with a metaphorical heart? It was Hell. And he would know. But still, it was a sweet torture… an undeniably addictive one.

He held up the first of the syringes, reflecting like a ruby in the dim light of his study. His vessel's heart was beating irregularly fast. His breaths were shallow and quick. It had been a long time. So long. He'd fallen off the wagon just once after his detox at the bunker, and it had been a brief slip. A brief slip, just like this was only going to be a brief slip.

Crowley positioned the needle at his wrist. He swallowed.

_Time to jump off the cliff_, he supposed.

He depressed the plunger.


	15. The Harder They Fall

**Chapter 15 - ...The Harder They Fall**

* * *

The blood's effect was almost instantaneous. Crowley leaned his head back, mouth opened in an 'o' as fire flooded through veins that had frosted over in his months of sobriety. He instantly felt his heart rate increase to a rapid staccato, felt more aware of every inch of his body. He lived his life through the senses of his vessel, as was a demon's doom, but when he was high… everything became firsthand. The body in his possession felt like _his_, from skin to bone to muscle to blood – yes, blood, blood that was seeping through him and melting the ice inside of him.

True Hell was not the thing itself, no, but the aftermath. Because Hell never left you. It made you cold, so cold that it hurt deep and hard, all of the time. There was a reason Hell was set ablaze. It was a sad and desperate attempt to warm its inhabitants, not some kind of punishment from God. No, roasting in the Pit was pleasurable compared to the subzero void that awaited a demon who lived on the surface. A void that hungered and pled for fulfillment.

It was why demons were always so intent on destruction, on causing pain and misery. All in the vain hope that it would fill that hole, that gaping abyss where a soul and a heart belonged. But like a blanket that never quite covered your toes, even the hedonistic and violent lifestyle of the typical demon couldn't do much at all to seethe the freezing ache.

But human blood… oh, that could do wonders.

Fire and ice filled him. He broke out into a sweat, something that he was usually incapable of. A subtle ringing filled his ears. He _felt it_. That spark that he'd been hunting after ever since the Winchesters had damned him to humanity, damned him to this needy, sloppy existence. It had all been so crystal clear, so simple before.

Nothing was simple, now.

He went to the second syringe and stabbed it into his wrist with perhaps unnecessary force. He didn't want a tingle. He wanted to be fucking _flying._

With a simple push, he received his second dose. Only a few seconds passed before he administered yet another one with a third needle. Oh._ Oh._

Even better than he remembered. He sighed deep in his chest as the lights in the room brightened and swam together, transforming into a watercolor painting before his very eyes. He ran a sweaty hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in all directions. His senses were limited, yet amplified. He wasn't in a stolen body anymore, no, it was him… just him.

Like being human. Almost. That was always the key word, wasn't it? _Almost._ Just enough to give a taste of what he so badly wanted, but never enough to completely fill that black hole in his chest, never enough to keep that flame burning… no, it was enough to taunt him, to give him a glimpse, but that was all.

Crowley's thoughts scattered into errant strands that he found difficult to pull back together, but really, that seemed a relief in and of itself. Because wasn't that always his greatest vice and greatest virtue? He thought too much. Far too much. He never stopped. Always planning, plotting… it kept him alive. But now that he'd had the faintest taste of something greater, something more than just playing the game and _surviving..._ it had become his worst enemy.

He had denied it for so long, but he couldn't deny it now; he would never be happy as he was. Even with Hell in a stranglehold, even with all the power, the crown, his own pet prophet and an army of demons ready to move at his word… it didn't give him the rush it once did. Why? Why didn't it mean anything anymore?

Another syringe. Only two left. He was suddenly quite convinced that he would need to obtain more, because six little vials seemed woefully inadequate. He needed to obliterate everything, leave just that intense, blazing, aching pain in his chest – so he could lose himself in it, in that singular sensation of _being_, of humanity.

Why did he want it so badly? Why did he want to destroy himself?

Syringe number five found its way into his hand, and he considered it. Any pain was worth it, really. It was worth being able to feel, to feed that hungry, desperate beast in his chest with something that actually quelled it for a time. But where did he draw the line? Where did it stop? It frightened him, the lengths he would go to in order to chase that spark inside of him.

Where would it end?

He should stop. Hell, he wanted to stop. It was only supposed to be _one._

Stab. Pain. Warmth. A tear escaped his eye, trailing down his face and disappearing into his beard. Ah, it was coming. He'd reached _that_ part, the part where a storm of overwhelming and indiscernible emotions rose in his chest and overtook him, leaving him in battered pieces. But like a child who kept burning their hand on the stove, he seemed incapable of stopping himself from pressing on, falling deeper into it.

Crowley leaned his head back, and he let out a short gasp as tears tracked down his cheeks. Such a strange feeling, crying. Such a simple thing, but it was the purest expression of feeling that existed. He remembered the first time he cried in centuries, that night that Moose first introduced him to his favored drug. He'd been bloody scared, when the tears came, because he didn't understand what was happening to him... the sudden division inside of himself.

One second, he felt like a human terrified of the demon within him – the next, a demon terrified of the human slowly gaining strength inside of him. He would never forget the disorientation, the mind numbing, paralyzing fear of it all.

Too often he wondered what would have happened if Sam had gone through with the third trial. Sober, he thanked his lucky stars that Dean had stopped him before he'd finished it. When he was medicated, however, he couldn't stop himself from wondering, what if? What if he had drank from Sam's hand and completed the curing ritual? What if he had become a human, a full, living, breathing _human_?

What if, what if, what if?

Not enough. Not that it would ever be enough, but he still felt driven to push the limits further. It's not as if he could overdose on human blood. Or at least, he was fairly sure he couldn't. He took the final syringe and positioned it at the crook of his arm rather than his wrist. Inhale. Push. Exhale. Another flood of heat, another flood of tears. He dropped the syringe with a clatter and put his head in his hands as the room spun around him.

It was just a one-time thing.

Just once.

"Crowley, what did you do!?"

He jumped at the sound of Veronica's voice. He jerked his head up, and was shocked to see her standing in the threshold of the now open door. He hadn't even noticed her enter his study. "You shouldn't be here," he said immediately.

Veronica disregarded him completely. She shut the door behind her, approaching his desk. She picked up the half empty blood bag of AB negative, staring at him with a mixture of horror and confusion. "Are you – are you injecting yourself with human blood?"

"I don't have to explain anything to you," he growled out.

Crowley forced himself out of his chair, lying his hands down flat on his desk. Sweet Hell, she was the last person on the planet he wanted to be around right now. He could smell it in her, practically hear it pumping through her veins, though that was likely just the thumping beat of his own heart in his ears. It was all he could do not to slam her against the wall and tap into that drug waiting for him just underneath her skin.

He didn't want to hurt her, and more than that, he didn't want her to see him when he was high. Bad enough that Sam and Dean had witnessed him while he was on the blood. He wanted nothing more than to keep his human side in the dark where it belonged.

"Veronica, get out of here."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Why do you care?" he burst out. "Why the hell does it matter to you at all? I'm your captor! Does it really make any difference what I spike my veins with in my free time?"

"I care because I don't think you're evil," she said simply. "I know you're not."

"Then you don't know the real me," Crowley responded, voice menacing. He laid his hands out flat on his desk in an attempt to hide how hard they were shaking. He turned his eyes from her, trying to reign in his cravings.

"I've dealt with enough evil to know it when I see it," Veronica argued. "And I hate to break it to you, but you're not it."

His control failing him, he vanished from behind his desk and reappeared inches from her. "You think you've seen evil?" he hissed. "You haven't seen a thing."

Her gaze met his, and in the dim light, her hazel eyes appeared to be almost amber. She really was beautiful, in an unassuming way. Her hair was out of its usual ponytail, and hung down to her mid back in a smooth ginger wave. Her thin, angled brows were drawn together in concern as she looked at him.

"You act like you don't want to be human, but from where I'm standing, it's what you want more than anything else."

"You have no idea what I want."

"I don't think you do either."

A scathing remark should have been poised on his tongue, but for once, nothing came readily to mind. _You know she's right, _whispered a traitorous voice in the back of his mind.

"You don't know what you want. You don't even know what you are anymore – or who."

"You are treading on very thin ice, my darling," he said, his voice barely more than a murmur.

"Why? Are you going to hurt me?" she asked, that same quiet challenge that had been in her voice when she had asked him if he wanted to take her soul. And just as then, the answer was the same.

"No." He felt a tear slip down his cheek. Gah, the fucking blood! "But I wish that I wanted to. A little over a year ago, I would've snapped your neck by now. Throttled the life out of you. There will always be more prophets, after all."

"So, what changed?" she asked him. "What changed _you_?"

Crowley stared at her. Should he tell her? Sober, he would have never considered it. But medicated, he found the words spilling out unbidden. "Last spring. The Winchesters. They kidnapped me. They were trying to shut the Gates of Hell, which would lock me and every other demon in the Pit forever. The spell to close the Gates, it was a set of three trials. Kill a hellhound. Take an innocent soul from Hell and deliver it from Heaven, and… and cure a demon."

"They cured you?"

"No," he said thickly. "They tried. Eight injections over eight hours." He swallowed, rubbing his neck absent-mindedly, half-expecting to find needle marks there. "Moose. He stopped just short of finishing it off. The effects, they…" He ran a hand over his face, feeling the sweat and tears on his skin. "They were a mite more permanent than I originally expected. Humanity, it left a stain on me, and no matter what I do, I can't scrub it out."

"It gave you a taste of being human," she said. "And you got addicted to it."

Crowley's jaw tensed. Why was it so easy for her to see straight through him like that? Then again, the blood always did make him transparent… and talkative. Bloody Hell. "It ruined me. I went on a binge. Fell off the map for months. Turned into a junkie." He flexed his arm, eyes darting down to the track marks. "I almost lost everything."

"But you stopped. You got sober."

Crowley eyed her suspiciously. "You know more than you're letting on. Don't play me."

Veronica pursed her lips. "I may have seen a few things," she admitted.

Crowley took a step closer to her. Veronica didn't shy away, but she was watching him with wary eyes. "What things?"

"I saw you injecting the blood earlier. I… I thought it was a dream, not an actual vision, because I barely ever see you anymore," Veronica admitted.

"And yet you're here," Crowley said softly.

"I needed to know if it was real or not," she told him. "If you really were-"

"Addicted to human blood?" Crowley filled in.

"Yeah."

"Well, congratulations. You've seen behind the curtain. Not pretty, is it?" he asked roughly. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes, trying to stem the steady flow of tears. If he wasn't high as a bird in flight, he might've found it within himself to be embarrassed.

"Being human isn't pretty," Veronica said. She set her hand on his arm, and Crowley tried to remember the last time someone had touched him. "Like you said the other day, humanity is messy, needy, and painful. But it's worth it."

"It's not," Crowley said with a shake of his head. "I've seen both sides of the grass. I know which is better. Damnation's a damn cakewalk compared to-" He broke off, biting down on his tongue and holding back a sob. "-to _this_." He gestured to the empty syringes that remained on his desk.

"And yet…" She turned his arm, looking pointedly at the marks on his wrist and the crook of his elbow. "You're chasing it."

"Don't try to counsel me, Chaplain. I'm not some soldier who needs a few prayers and some kind words. I'm way above your pay grade," he responded.

"A few prayers certainly never hurt anyone."

"Someday I'll explain to you why that statement is so very wrong," he muttered. He gently removed himself from her grasp. "I didn't expect the Stockholm Syndrome to set in so quickly. You can go. Mystery solved. I'm a junkie."

"Stockholm Syndrome, huh?" Veronica asked with an arched eyebrow. "How do you know that I'm not just trying to get close to you? Get you to trust me so I can catch you off guard and escape?"

Crowley watched her, and he couldn't help but smile ever-so-slightly. "A woman of God would never scheme like that."

Both eyebrows raised this time. "Oh?"

Crowley laughed in spite of himself. "Scandalous. I hope you've said your Hail Marys."

"I think God would forgive me for emotionally manipulating the King of Hell," she said. She then picked the bag of human blood off of his desk and deposited it in a nearby trashcan. "But I'm not. Call me a bleeding heart, but I – well, I've been told that I've got a major case of sick puppy syndrome. I have this tendency to care for the hopeless wreck cases. The people who think they're beyond saving."

Crowley went rigid. He couldn't recall the last time someone had said that to him... said they _cared_. Actually, come to think of it, he was fairly sure that no one had ever said that to him. Which was why he immediately discarded her words as a lie.

"You think I can't get more?" he said darkly, eyes fixed on the trashcan, bypassing what Veronica had just said to him completely.

"I know you can, but you probably shouldn't, don't you think?"

"I like to embrace my demons," he replied. "Once a junkie, always a junkie. No use fighting it."

"I never thought you would be such a defeatist," she commented. There wasn't even a hint of malice in her words, but he still felt stung by them.

"Shouldn't you be encouraging this? I'm a demon clinging to humanity like it's my bloody Knuffle bunny. People like you, you get off on things like that."

"People like me?"

"Religious people. Bible beaters. You want to save me? Well, I've got news for you, darling: I'm the King of people who by definition _cannot be saved_."

"Crowley, everyone can be saved. _No one_ is beyond saving. Absolutely no one. Not even demons. But no, I'm not going to encourage you to keep shooting up. There's no such thing as a good addiction. And just like any other drug, it'll destroy you, given enough time."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I'm positive you do." Veronica frowned deeply, and he didn't know whether there was sympathy or pity in her eyes. There was a fine line, there, and with his currently less-than-sharp state of mind, he wasn't able to discern which it was. "I don't know if you can overdose on human blood, but regardless, something like this can kill you in all of the ways that matter. You need to choose."

"Choose what?"

"Human, or demon. Redemption, or more of the same."

"Whoever said anything about redemption?" he snapped.

"It's one of the greatest things gifted to mankind, the ability to atone. To change. To become better."

"Do you listen to yourself talk? Because I have to." He shook his head. "It's sad. I don't think you even realize just how naïve you are. Are you always this idealistic, or am I just a special case?"

"Oh, you're a special case alright," Veronica replied dryly. "All I'm trying to say is that you can't have both. You've got to pick a side."

"Can't I?" Crowley said lowly. He snapped his fingers. One of the syringes on the desk instantly filled with blood from the bag Veronica had binned. He picked it up. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he positioned the needle in the crook of his arm. Defiant, he stabbed it into his tensed vein and depressed the plunger.

"I'm the King. I can do whatever I want. _Have_ whatever I want," he told her, voice a wreck. He shuddered as the seventh dose entered his system. He was forced to sit on the edge of the desk, as his legs were no longer able to fully support his weight. The painful but perfect feeling of the blood overwhelmed him, and he tipped his head back in ecstasy.

The syringe dropped out of his hand, hitting the floor. Veronica watched him. She seemed… sad. But why?

"Why the long face? Never seen a lost cause before?" he asked.

"You're not lost," she replied. "Not completely. And the long face? That's because even though I barely know you, I know that you're better than this."

"Well, you're not wrong on that account, love," Crowley said, slightly breathless. "You _don't_ know me."

Veronica watched him for a few more moments, seeming to debate with herself. Then, she turned on her heel and left through the open door. He felt a substantial loss at her departure.

He looked back at the syringes. Oh well. He had a handy way to obliterate the sensation.

* * *

Ronnie was beginning to wish that she could turn off her visions. Between what she saw in Dean's head and what she saw in Crowley's, her nights were turning into a complete nightmare.

During the day, Crowley was, by all appearances, the consummate business man and politician. But once the sun set, he inevitably retreated to his study with a pilfered bag of human blood. He never did as much as he did that first night, but he still injected quite a bit – as far as Ronnie could tell, anyhow. She didn't know how much human blood was too much. It's not like she had ever encountered anyone who was addicted to it before.

Crowley hadn't come to retrieve any of her written down visions in days. Just as well, she supposed – they weren't exactly chock full of information. She'd seen that Sam and Cas had a lead on the Horsemen rings after meeting with Dick's mother, who was apparently a 'Leviathan'. Crowley had explained to her the week beforehand about the monsters from Purgatory, and she had to say that the real thing was a little bit off from the Biblical interpretations.

Of course, she didn't write that Cas and Sam had any luck with the Horsemen rings. The more she hid of their activities from Crowley, the better. She simply continued the story that Sam was searching for the rings and his brother, while Cas tortured his way through demon after demon in search of both Crowley and Dean.

She also found herself giving less detailed accounts of Dean's activities, and though she didn't really want to admit it, she was doing it for Crowley's sake. She didn't want to him to know just how far the once-human had fallen, because she was concerned that it would drive him even farther into his addiction.

Really, she should've been trying to get that very result – after all, if Crowley was high as hell and wrapped up in his addiction, it would make her escape all the easier. But unfortunately, she'd meant it when she said she cared about Crowley. She'd been in his head, he'd taken her into his world (albeit against her will) and she'd seen far too much of him to hate him like a reasonable person would.

She had been told repeatedly throughout her life that she had Sick Puppy Syndrome. If she saw someone who was broken, she couldn't help but want to fix them to the best of her abilities. Apparently that condition extended to the King of Hell, as well. She truly believed that God had a plan for Crowley. And maybe she was involved with that plan. She was supposed to help him, in some way… she just didn't know how yet.

Finally, after avoiding her for five days, Crowley appeared in her room without knocking. She jumped at his presence, nearly falling off of the couch in the progress.

"Why did you even bother giving me a door?" she asked, annoyed, but she was still relieved to see him. He looked alright, but there were dark circles under his eyes, and he had a kind of raggedness about him that he never had prior to his relapse.

"It's a very nice door," he told her. "What do you have for me?"

She gestured to the stack of papers on the nearby writing desk. "Four nights' worth. I was starting to think you forgot about me."

"I've been a bit busy."

"With the blood."

Blank expression. "Among other things." He went to the desk, picking them up. He eyed the book next to him. "_Time is on My Side. _Finally got to me, did you?"

"Yeah. You were only in one scene, though – I was almost disappointed."

"Unfortunately I was never a main character in the Winchester gospel," he replied. "You won't see me again for quite awhile. I'm only in three other books in the series."

"Which ones?"

"None of the ones you have. They're published online. I'll have a laptop sent up tomorrow, seeing as you're almost done with the paperbacks. Quite the speed reader, aren't you?"

"It's not like I've had much else to do," she responded.

"What've you been seeing?" Crowley asked, sifting through the papers on her desk.

"You shooting up. Dean going on killing sprees. Vagrants, prostitutes, people that no one will miss. Sam's still miserable, Gadreel's still trying to keep the peace in Heaven, and Cas is sick and torturing your demons to try to find you. Other than that, not much."

"How long do you think Castiel has until he carks it?" Crowley asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

"Not much longer," she said sadly. "His Grace is killing him from the inside out, like some kind of angelic Graft vs. Host disease. With the way he's declining, I'd give him two weeks, maybe more if he doesn't exert his Grace – but knowing him, he will."

"He's in denial, isn't he?"

"Actually… I think he's kind of accepted it. It's almost like he doesn't care. He pushes himself so hard, and he know it's just going to kill him faster," Ronnie informed him. Crowley turned to her, and she thought she saw a hint of sympathy in the King's eyes.

"That doesn't surprise me. After all that bird's seen, he probably wants a break from it all, deep down," he said, gathering up the papers in his arms. She could tell he wasn't planning on sticking around. He never cut his visits this short. He was still avoiding her as best he could.

"Crowley, wait-"

Too late. He was already gone.

* * *

"Yes– yes!" Sam pumped his fist in the air, feeling his first sense of victory in a long time. After days of tiring and complicated hacking that left him seeing ones and zeroes every time he closed his eyes, he finally managed to break into Dick Roman's tightly sealed living financial records. Every cent he spent while he was alive was available to Sam now.

Including any child supports payments… which would hopefully lead them to his daughter.

"Cas!" Sam shouted. "Get in here!" Sam's eyes were scanning over the results fast, scrolling down through them, focusing only on money that Dick had spent post '98. It wasn't long before he saw the monthly child support payments, paid to the account of a Susan Vincent in Lansing, Michigan.

He heard a hacking coughing fit from deeper in the bunker. A few minutes later Cas arrived in the library. The angel had been with him almost constantly since they'd talked to the Leviathan posing as Lorraine in Fort Lauderdale, only disappearing a few times to 'speak' to a few demons.

Still nothing on Dean. He had at least been grateful to the hacking distraction for that much – it kept his mind off of Dean, at least in part.

"What did you find?" Cas rasped, sinking down into the seat next to Sam.

"A lead," he provided. "Dick's financial records say he's been making monthly payments to someone named Susan Vincent since 1998. I did a quick search on her…" He switched tabs to bring up the page for the Lansing public school system. "She's a History teacher in Lansing. She has one daughter, Sadie Vincent, who's seventeen, and Susan's not married. That's gotta be Dick's daughter."

"We need to speak to her immediately. Do you have an address?"

"Working on it. Give me a minute." A quick look in the online yellow pages led them to their address – a cozy suburb in Lansing. "Got it." He glanced at Cas. "I guess I can't convince you to let me drive us there?"

Cas just gave him a look.

Sam sighed. "Fine. Let me go put a suit on." He pushed himself up. A quick sniff of his armpit told him he should shower as well. He glanced at the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table. He made a mental note to brush his teeth.

Twenty minutes later, Sam was adjusting his tie in the mirror. Cas hovered in the threshold of the door. "Historical society again?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Are you ready?"

He nodded. "Let's go."

Cas set his hand on Sam's shoulder, taking a deep breath that hitched halfway through and led to a wracking cough. Before Sam could ask if he was okay, they were gone. He had the unpleasant sensation of not being able to keep track of his body, and then felt whole again as his feet touched solid ground.

They were in the driveway of a green two story house in a typical suburban cul de sac. There was a hard thump next to him. Cas was on the ground. _Shit. _Sam dropped down next to him, hand on Cas's back. "Cas? Hey. Cas!" The angel wasn't stirring.

He turned the angel over. His eyes were closed. "Shit, Cas, don't do this to me." He patted the angel's cheek. "Come on, wake up Cas." No response from Cas. With a tight frown and worry building in his stomach, he slapped Cas hard across the face. Cas gasped, eyes snap opening and revealing the feverish bright blue underneath.

"I – what happened?"

"You passed out," Sam told him. "And this is why we should've driven."

"I see little point in saying I told you so," Cas groused, sitting up with Sam's help. "I-"

"Hey, who the hell are you?"

Sam and Cas's heads both lifted and turned at the voice behind them. A teenage girl stood on the front steps of the house, hands on her hips. She was relatively diminutive with short dark hair, marked by a blue streak in the bangs. She was dressed in all black in spite of the fact that it was pushing eighty degrees outside. Her tight black shirt pictured a dragonfly, and in scrawled letters it read _Coheed &amp; Cambria. _

"We're from the Illinois Historical Society," Sam told her. "I'm sorry about my friend here – he has a fainting condition." Sam made a mental note to find a non-contagious disease that encompassed all of Cas's symptoms and they could use as an excuse from now on. Probably something genetic.

"Well, why are you fainting in our driveway?" she asked, not a hint of sympathy in her voice.

"Nice kid," Sam said under his breath. "Uh, we're here to speak with either Susan or Sadie Vincent. We're from the Illinois Historical Society."

"My mom's not here. What do you want?" she asked, hands leaving her hips. She crossed her arms. Wow. So, they'd found Sadie. She was quite the people person, apparently.

Sam helped Cas to his feet. The angel wavered slightly, but he managed to stand on his own after a moment.

"Ah, is it alright if we come inside?"

"Yeah, uh, not happening," Sadie said. "I've watched enough episodes of _Law and Order: SVU_ to know that's a shitty idea."

"We're not pedophiles," Cas assured her in a strained voice. "If we were, we certainly wouldn't have approached you in broad daylight like this."

Sadie eyed Cas suspiciously. "Fine. Whatever. But if you two try anything, keep in mind that I've got mace and I am _so_ not afraid to use it."

"Understood," Sam told her with a nod. With a roll of her eyes, she turned on her heel and headed into the house, leaving the door open behind her.

"She doesn't seem very pleasant," Cas commented.

"Yeah, well, teenagers rarely are," Sam replied. They followed in after Sadie, closing the door in their wake. The house was nicely furnished and well kept – Sadie's family obviously had money. She waited for them in the kitchen, standing at the island there with a bottle of water in one hand and the promised can of mace in the other.

"So, what exactly do you guys want?"

"We're here to ask you about Dick Roman," Cas told her. "He is your father, yes?"

The teen's expression turned even more sour. "Father. Right. Yeah, no. He was a sperm donor who sent my mom a check every month. Why does some historical society care about Dick?"

"He had in his possession several artifacts that we have interest in," Sam told her. "We've been trying to figure out who got most of his things when he passed away. We were wondering if he left you anything in his will...?"

Sadie took a sip of her water. "Yeah. For some reason, the guy left me a shit ton of stuff – like hundreds of thousands of dollars worth. Everything from old paintings to Ming vases to a couple of vacation homes. We couldn't believe it. I'd only talked to the guy like three times in my life, and he left me pretty much every physical thing he owned."

"Really?" Sam couldn't help but be surprised. He never pegged the original Dick as the type to have a soft spot, but apparently when it came to his illegitimate daughter, he at least cared enough to provide for her future – and then some.

"Did your father leave you any jewelry?" Cas inquired, putting a hand on the wall to support himself better.

Sadie shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't even go through it all, there was so much. Plus, my mom and I decided to sell it all off, anyway."

It was all Sam could do not to scream in frustration. "You sold everything?"

Sadie nodded. "You bet your ass I did, and it's gonna pay for my college fund, my kids' college fund, my mom's retirement, and pretty much anything I'm ever gonna need _ever_. I can't say my old man never gave me anything."

He could see that Cas was trying to hide his irritation as well. "Who did you sell your father's possessions to?"

"Some private collector guy. He was a real creep, but he had deep pockets, so I didn't care."

"A name would be helpful," Sam said with a thin smile.

"Uhhhh… Albert something?"

Sam stilled at that. "Albert… Magnus?"

Sadie nodded. "Yeah, that was it. Albert Magnus."

Cas's eyes narrowed, and he looked at Sam. "That is the Men of Letters' alias of choice, isn't it?"

"What's a Man of Letters?" Sadie asked, confused. Sam shot Cas a look, telling him to remain silent.

"It's a long story. Thank you for your help, Sadie. We'll see if we can track down Mr. Magnus and ask if he'll allow us to look through the collection." He lifted a hand. "Have a nice day."

"Whatever."

The two of them exited the house quickly. As soon as the front door was shut behind them, Sam turned to Cas. "Yes, Albert Magnus is the alias the Men of Letters always used – and more specifically, it's the alias that Cuthbert Sinclair used. The Men of Letters kicked him out because he was too radical, too into the darker side of the supernatural."

"I remember Dean mentioning him, yes. He had the hidden complex that was only accessible by spell and filled with oddities."

"He was a sick bastard," Sam told him. "But if he bought the Horseman rings off of the Vincents, that means that he was still in possession of them when he died, so the Horseman rings must be in that complex of his."

"You remember where it is?"

"Yeah, yeah-" Sam broke off. "_Shit._ The ingredients for the spell. They're hard to find. I still have some left over from last time, but one of the ingredients was really tricky to get."

"What was it?"

"Uh… essence of Chernobog? I wasn't even positive what a Chernobog was. Crowley had to get it."

"Crowley was with you?"

"It was when you were off dealing with the angel faction war. We needed his help to get to the Blade, so we bit the bullet and brought him along for the ride," Sam said, grimacing. They should've killed Crowley the second that Dean got a hold of the Blade and ended all of this before it had the chance to begin.

"Essence of Chernobog… Crowley has a warehouse with his rarest items in Beijing. If I remember correctly, he stored a supply of it there. I'll go fetch it-" Cas broke off, his hands flying to either side of his head. "What…?"

"What is it? Angel radio?"

Cas's eyes pinched shut. "Yes, I…" He flinched. "They're screaming. There's-"

"Castiel. I couldn't stop them."

Sam practically jumped a foot in the air at the sound of Gadreel's voice behind him. He turned to see the tall angel standing there, a wide gash across his face. He was clutching his shoulder, which was bleeding profusely. "I'm sorry. I couldn't stop them."

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam asked. _Them? Not the opposing angels?_

"Asmodel's angels. They attacked us, our camp. We had no warning – they killed easily twenty of us before we managed to stop them. The other angels, I told them not to retaliate before I had a chance to speak to you, but they wouldn't listen. They've engaged Asmodel's faction in battle," Gadreel rattled off, seeming out of breath. "Brother, I am sorry to ask this of you when you are in such a state, but we need you in Heaven. You are the only one who has a chance to quell this conflict before it turns into another civil war."

"You were right to come to me," Cas said, one hand still on his head. "I will come. Sam, I'm sorry-"

"It's okay, Cas. Just go. I've got this."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He clapped Cas gently on the shoulder. "Good luck. And please, for the love of everything, be careful."

"I will." Cas inclined his head, and then pulled Sam into a hug. Sam found it privately amusing that Cas had become such a hugger since Sam had taught him that particular social custom. He returned the embrace gently.

A second later, his arms were empty, and both Cas and Gadreel were gone.

It didn't take Sam long to realize that he was now going to have to find a way back to Kansas on his own. Sam sighed, taking out his phone, and looked up the nearest bus station.


	16. Man Your Battle Stations

**Chapter 16 - Man Your Battle Stations**

* * *

Heaven was in chaos. A kind of chaos that Cas hadn't seen since his civil war with Raphael. Angel against angel, brother versus brother… a mass slaughter. It was horrific. When he and Gadreel arrived in Heaven, they were in the autistic man's Tuesday afternoon once again, and Cas quickly realized that it had become the camp of the angels on his side.

There were bodies everywhere. Black wings burnt into green grass. Just as it had been when he had murdered thousands of his own siblings after he'd declared himself God. He felt bile rise in his throat, and he was forced to keep his eyes trained on his feet, trying to fight back the memories of what he had done. He heard voices – Hannah and Cathetel. They told him that they'd abstained from the fighting, wanting to wait for his command.

Hannah called him Commander again. He told her forcefully not to. He was not meant to command, that much had been made blatantly obvious over the past several years.

Along with Gadreel, they brought Castiel to the battlefield. The particular slice of Heaven that the brunt of the combat was taking place in belonged to Cliff Burton, according to Cathetel. By the looks of, it was a never-ending heavy metal concert. Instead of a crowd of humans pumping their fists with the music, however, there were hundreds and hundreds of angels meeting in combat, all to the soundtrack of Metallica's "Battery".

Metatron's pop culture knowledge had done him a few favors, at least.

_"Lashing out the action, returning the reaction, the weak are ripped and torn away…"_

Angels were upon them in an instant, wings spread out menacingly. It was difficult to see – it was night time in this Heaven, and the only light came from the stage, and the illumination often faded out. Or, like now, it was a strobe light flickering at an incredibly fast and disorienting frequency.

_"Hypnotizing power, crushing all that cower, battery is here to stay…"_

Cas's angel blade was in his hand in a split second, coming up to deflect an oncoming strike. He heard a bark of an order on the angel radio that sounded like Asmodel – strict orders to kill him. Unsurprising, but it did give Cas less hope for creating some kind of treaty with the Angel of Patience. Still, his goal was to get to Asmodel and speak to him. The problem between the two sides of Heaven would not be solved by violence, he was sure of that.

Castiel instructed the others to form a circle around him. "Defend," he told them. "Don't kill unless absolutely necessary."

_"Crashing through the boundaries, lunacy has found me, cannot stop the battery…"_

Castiel screamed on the angel radio for Asmodel to stop the fighting, that he wanted to talk, that he wanted to attempt to parlay, but he was ignored and smothered by the battle cry of the opposition's angels. He probably should have spread his wings out like all of those around him, at the very least to act as another line of protection and make it easier for him to move, but he didn't want to. Not with the way they looked, and the aura they projected.

Stolen, poisoned Grace… stolen, poisoned wings. They reflected far too much of what he felt on the inside. So, he fought without them displayed proudly on either side of him as he would have in the past.

_"Pounding out aggression, turned into obsession, cannot kill the battery!"_

He caught blade after blade with his own, dodging and avoiding, doing anything he could not to have to kill any more of his family members. There had been so much death, and so much of it had happened because of him. He didn't want any more blood on his hands. But still, he couldn't avoid it – soon enough, he had already been forced to kill two other angels. He knew their names, of course. Charoum and Zayday. He knew the name of every angel he had ever killed.

It was a long list.

_"Cannot kill the family, battery is found in me!"_

Bass thumped. Cymbals crashed. A guitar solo ripped through the air, mingling with the sound of clashing blades and screams, all with the high buzz of celestial energy in the air. Blue-white light flashed periodically in the partial darkness, marking more deaths. Cas could feel his strength flagging very fast – not that he had much to begin with – and he was worried he wouldn't be able to make it to Asmodel and survive.

Gadreel, Hannah, and Cathetel drew closer to him, trying to form a more resilient line of defense between Cas and the angels that were very determined to end him. He was impressed by Gadreel. The angel had been trapped in Heaven's prison for so long, yet his skill in combat barely seemed to have degenerated at all. He was an impressive sight.

An angel blade bit into Cas's collar bone, narrowly missing his throat. He whirled, severing the arm of the angel that had just attacked him, sending her spiraling backwards with a howl of pain. His chest tightened. Why? Why did everything always inevitably end in destruction?

_"Circle of destruction, hammer comes crushing, powerhouse of energy..."_

They pushed through wave after wave. Cas felt a large hand on his shoulder. He met Gadreel's eyes, and they glowed for a moment, and Cas felt a burst of energy enter him.

"Gadreel-"

"Please, brother. We need you," Gadreel shouted over the din of battle around them.

He wasn't sure what Gadreel was trying to say – almost as if he was implying that Castiel's life was worth more than his own, that he was more important in some way, and that wasn't true. Cas wanted to tell him that, but there was no time to argue, no time for anything. All that mattered now was survival.

It was perhaps even worse now than it had been during the civil war between himself and Raphael. There was a level of desperation in the air that hadn't been there before, like every angel was fighting for their last breath.

_"Whipping up a fury, dominating flurry, we create the battery!"_

Finally, he spotted Asmodel in the distance. The lanky angel was a flurry of movement, slaying his brethren without the slightest hint of regret. Castiel supposed that he shouldn't be surprised. Someone who would seek to end the world at the cost of millions of lives would have no qualms about killing their own kin.

_"Smashing through the boundaries, lunacy has found me, cannot stop the battery!"_

With the extra boost granted to him by Gadreel, Castiel was able to at least avoid his demise. Their progress through the crowd was slow and difficult, but they pushed through with effort. Before long, Castiel was in range of Asmodel. Reluctantly, he released his wings, spreading the molting, injured things out and using them to propel him forward. He tackled Asmodel hard, sending them both to the ground.

"This ends now!" Cas shouted, his hoarse voice breaking halfway through his shouted declaration. He pinned the other angel down with all of his strength.

_"Pounding out aggression turned into obsession, cannot kill the battery! Cannot kill the family, battery is found in me!"_

Knowing that nothing would be accomplished here, Cas gave one last desperate stab of his Grace and teleported the two of them away from the endless metal concert in the sky. Cas sent them to the first place he could think of – Ken Lay's Heaven, Raphael's former headquarters. He and Asmodel crashed down onto a bear pelt rug, wrestling around violently.

Asmodel swiftly gained the upper hand, forcing Cas down and putting his angel blade to Cas's throat. Cas was forced to go still. "Castiel. So nice to see you. I was hoping you would come. I wanted to squash the rebellion before it had a chance to start."

"Rebellion? We wanted peace! You attacked us!"

"You went against the ineffable plan. The apocalypse is inevitable – there is no use resisting it."

"Nothing is inevitable," Cas growled in response. "Surely you've seen that by now. There doesn't need to be bloodshed between us, Asmodel."

"We want very different things, dear brother," the other angel said, pressing in the tip of the blade and piercing Cas's skin. Cas flinched against the pain, but firmly kept Asmodel's gaze, meeting the challenge waiting for him there.

"If you continue on this path, you will destroy our entire race!"

"I am trying to save the Host!"

"You are a megalomaniac who gets drunk off of power, just as you have always been!" Castiel blew Asmodel off of him, and the other angel slammed hard into the nearby wall, leaving a crack in the wood paneling. Cas focused, binding Asmodel there with a telekinetic hold. It so drained Castiel that it left him on his knees and on the floor, his head swimming and his vision blurring, but he needed to halt the other angel. He allowed his wings to disappear, as it was growing difficult to keep them tangible.

"I have not forgotten our time together in the garrison, Asmodel," Cas continued. "You would do anything to advance your position, to gain power. If Michael had ordered you to slaughter all of humanity, one by one, you would have done so in a heartbeat. You are the worst kind of tyrant; the kind that wants their position only so they can subjugate the weak," Castiel growled out.

"You say that is if you're better!" Asmodel snapped. "As if you're some kind of saint! You are the sole reason we are where we are. _You_ were the one angel that couldn't follow orders, _you_ were the one that betrayed Heaven, betrayed Michael, betrayed our Father! You played God, you destroyed us, and you _dare_ accuse me of being a tyrant, of being some kind of monster? Look at yourself before you point the finger at me, _brother, _when the only thing you care for are two humans who damned the world with their cowardice, with their refusal to play the roles that were chosen for them!"

"The Winchesters are heroes! They were brave enough to stand for the human race, for Earth, when no one else would!"

"_Heroes!?_ Open your eyes! Dean Winchester is an abomination worthy of Lucifer himself! I have seen him, seen the twisted perversion he has become, and Sam Winchester is not much better, with Azazel's blood pumping through his veins. You defend them, but they are the very thing that not even a decade ago, you would have annihilated in an instant. They tainted you! _Humanity_ tainted you!"

"The Winchesters showed me what was truly worth fighting for. Humanity is worth-" Cas broke off. "You saw Dean?"

Asmodel simply stared at him. "You prove my point for me. You don't care about Heaven or the angels, Castiel. You haven't in a long time."

With a burst of energy, Asmodel broke free of his hold. He was on Castiel in a second, twisting his wrist and forcing Cas to drop his angel blade. Asmodel punched him in the face hard, breaking his jaw. He sent him to the floor, and Cas couldn't even struggle, though he tried – his Grace was a bare spark in his chest, barely enough to keep him alive, let alone fight.

Asmodel stood, looking down at him with a mixture of disgust and condemnation. He pressed his foot down on Cas's chest, then pushed – and pushed – and pushed. Castiel screamed as he felt several of his vessel's ribs snap under the pressure. Asmodel held out his hand, and Cas's angel blade flew into his grip. Doubly armed, he smirked.

"It is long past time that you feel the true wrath of Heaven," Asmodel said. He flipped around both blades so they pointed downward. "Goodbye, Castiel."

_No, it can't end like this! I'm not done yet!_

In spite of himself, he let out one final desperate prayer – _"God, please." - _even though he knew it would be to no avail.

Just as both angel blades were about to meet his chest, Asmodel was tackled to the side by a fast moving blur. Castiel heard sounds of a skirmish to his left. With effort, he turned his head. He was surprised to see Gadreel holding Asmodel down and beating him viciously.

"Run, brother!" Gadreel shouted over his shoulder as he brought his fist down on Asmodel's nose.

Run? How could he run? He had no strength left to him.

He closed his eyes and struggled for breath. He tried to grab a hold of that small spark inside of him. Clung to it.

He thought of the bunker.

* * *

Sam had elected to just boost a car instead of taking the bus, on the grounds that he didn't want to add an additional three to four hours on his drive home. Still, he didn't arrive back at the bunker in Lebanon until late that night. He abandoned the stolen Prius (he could hear Dean ridiculing him for the choice of car in the back of his mind) in front of the bunker. He would take care of it tomorrow, drop it somewhere in the city where it would be found.

It had been an almost fourteen hour drive, and he hadn't exactly relished it. He hadn't had to drive a distance that long without Dean since before his brother had returned from Purgatory. It had given his thoughts far too much room to wander, without a distraction to occupy him. No, it was just the road, just two lines and four wheels, and without Dean… it just wasn't right.

Nothing had been right in a long time.

Sam sighed heavily as he went to the bunker door, using the key and opening the large door. He shut it behind him and locked it, heading through the entrance hallway and into the foyer. He flicked on the light on his way in, feeling almost comforted by the whirring sounds of the bunker's various systems around him. Yeah. Dean was right – it was home. It was one of the only things he had, right now. Sam went to head down the stairs, but he froze when he saw the crumpled mass at the bottom of the steps.

"Cas!"

Sam rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reached Cas, Sam dropped down on his hands and knees next to the angel, who was on his side and curled partially into the fetal position. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't moving at all. Had he fainted again? He pushed Cas flat on his back, and he saw that the angel was covered fairly thoroughly in blood.

"Shit," Sam breathed. He was relieved when he realized that most of the blood didn't appear to be Cas's, as the angel only had a few visible injuries – a few wide gashes had ripped open the sleeve of his overcoat, and there was a deep wound on his collar bone, along with a swollen jaw and a few bruises on his face. "Cas?" He shook the angel. Nothing.

He leaned his ear down by Cas's mouth, and after a moment, he heard shallow breaths. Thank God. He shook him again, but it earned him no response from Cas.

Sam contemplated slapping the angel again, but with the swelling and bruising on Cas's jaw, he decided against it. "Alright, come on, buddy." Sam hauled Cas up, struggling slightly. The angel was complete dead weight. He held Cas's still form in his arms, hurrying down the nearby hallway that led to the lion's share of the bunker's bedrooms. He deposited Cas in the one across from his own, lying him down gently on the bed.

"What the hell happened to you?" he whispered to himself.

"War."

Sam jumped at the voice before he was able to recover. "Damn it, Gadreel, can you _not_?" The damn angel was going to give him heart attack, at this rate. He turned to face the angel, and he was surprised to see that he was in even worse shape than Cas. He leaned heavily on the wall, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He was covered in wounds, and his shirt was basically in tatters. His angel blade still dangled from his hand. "Whoa," Sam said.

"Asmodel's angels were a force to be reckoned with. They've finally retreated, but the combat that preceded that was bloody and difficult. Castiel attempted to speak with Asmodel, but it nearly ended in his death. I managed to buy him enough time to escape. I tried to finish off Asmodel myself, but I was unsuccessful. He is a slippery one." Gadreel walked forward on trembling legs, making his way to Castiel's bedside. "I sent him here many hours ago. He is still not awake?"

Sam didn't like the idea of Cas alone and injured in the bunker. He wished there was some way he could've gotten back to Lebanon sooner. "No. He's breathing, but barely. Whatever happened to him up in Heaven, it might've been the last straw. It's like he's in some kind of coma."

"His Grace is almost gone," Gadreel said. "I can jumpstart it, if you will, with my own Grace. It might be enough to wake him, but I make no guarantees."

"Do it," Sam said with a decisive nod. Gadreel made to set his hand on Cas's arm, but then Sam stopped him. "Wait. You're hurt. This isn't going to mess with you, is it?"

Gadreel looked at him, surprised. "You would care if helping Castiel had a negative effect on me?"

Sam frowned. "I don't exactly have a long list of allies right now." He hoped that explained enough that he wouldn't have to elaborate further. He didn't necessarily care for Gadreel, but he did feel slightly indebted to him for his help recently, so he felt obligated to look out for the angel to some degree.

"It will weaken me somewhat, but not enough to cause lasting damage," Gadreel told him. He grabbed Cas's arm, closing his eyes briefly. His hand glowed blue. A moment later, Cas's eyes split open, and the angel gasped. Gadreel withdrew, collapsing into the chair next to the desk, seeming drained.

"What- Asmodel-" Cas's half-incoherent splutter was cut off by a chest-deep cough that shook him. He leaned over the side of the bed and promptly vomited blood onto the floor.

"Ah, Cas." Sam grabbed a trashcan and brought it to the Cas, and the angel continued hacking into it. Sam looked away with a grimace, keeping a hand on Cas's back. After a few minutes, Cas withdrew, collapsing backwards on the bed. His chest heaved with effort, and his skin was covered in a thick sheen on sweat.

"Is Asmodel dead?" Castiel managed, his mouth barely movig when he asked the question. It sounded like his jaw was broken. Cas closed his eyes, his hand lifting to cover his abdomen, as if he was in excruciating pain.

"I'm afraid not," Gadreel said. "He was able to escape me. I'm sorry, brother."

"It is-" Cough. A sound that was almost a whimper. "It is not your fault, Gadreel... I would be dead without you. Thank you."

"So I guess you guys couldn't convince him to lay down his arms?" Sam asked.

"No. He refused. He wants Judgment Day… and he's not going to let anything stop him," Cas said, pained, every word seeming to be a challenge for the angel.

"Your ribs are broken," Gadreel observed, pushing himself back to his feet. "So is your jaw."

"Gadreel, don't-" Too late. Gadreel laid his hands on Cas's shoulders. Breathed out. More blue light. Cas let out a sigh of relief. Gadreel stumbled, and he would have fallen to the floor if not for Sam catching him.

"Okay, you two need to rest," Sam said. "Gadreel, there are rooms all over the place. Lay down, get back your strength."

"Asmodel's forces could attack again at any moment, I must return to Heaven," Gadreel insisted, eyes out of focus.

"No, Sam is right," Castiel huffed out, wiping his shredded sleeve across his blood-stained lips. "You need to rest. You're no good to the others in your current state. Hannah will take care of things while you're away."

Gadreel looked like he wanted to argue, but eventually, he nodded. "I suppose you are right."

"Can you walk?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Gadreel confirmed. He pushed off of Sam, making his way slowly to the door. He opened it and slipped out. Sam turned back to Cas.

"We have to do something about this," Sam said. "We can't just sit back and wait for it to end, Cas. You're going to die unless we figure out something to help your Grace, and figure it out _fast_."

"What can we possibly do, Sam?" Cas asked, not opening his eyes. "Short of stealing another angel's Grace, I have no options – and I'm not going to do that. Doing the same thing again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity."

"Insane is all we've got left," Sam said. "If we have to drain another angel, then that's what we'll do – we could figure out some way to trap one of Asmodel's goons."

"No," Cas said forcefully, finally opening up his eyes. "I won't steal another angel's Grace, no matter who they fight for. The only Grace that can solve this is my own, and it's gone."

Sam's brow furrowed, a thought hitting him. "Is it, though?"

Cas narrowed his eyes at Sam. "What do you mean?"

"Metatron took your Grace. You said he cut your throat, drained it, and put it in a vial."

"Yes…?"

"Then where's the vial?"

"I imagine it was destroyed in the course of casting the spell. Like Gadreel's Grace that I extracted from you, once it was used for the spell to close the Gates, it was gone."

"But what if it wasn't? What if Metatron still has it somewhere?"

Cas was silent for a long moment. "I suppose it's possible," he eventually conceded. "When I've recovered, I'll talk to him."

"Recovered?" Sam echoed, giving Cas a serious look. The angel leaned his head back and sighed.

"I can't just lie down and die, Sam."

"You need to conserve what little juice you've got left. When Gadreel's back on his feet, I'll send him after Metatron," Sam said.

"Absolutely not," Cas insisted. "I won't let him go back there."

"What? Back to the angel lock-up?"

"Yes. You didn't see him when we were trapped there after we attempted to sneak into Heaven. I've never seen such…" Cas trailed off, muffling a cough with his hand. "I can't even describe how he was. Traumatized. Terrified. It was awful. We can't make him go back."

"I won't make him. I'll ask him. We can leave it up to him."

"Gadreel will do anything to attempt to atone for what he's done. He won't refuse anything you ask him to do."

_Good_, Sam thought. _He owes me that much, at least. _"I'm going to ask him. It's the only chance we've got to get a permanent fix for this."

Cas grimaced, eyes closing again. "You're very stubborn, Sam. I suspect it's a trait you picked up from Dean."

Sam pursed his lips. "Yeah… yeah, I guess I did."

Another beat of silence, even longer this time. "Sam?" Cas eventually murmured, seeming half-asleep already.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"I miss Dean," he said quietly, in a manner that was almost child-like.

Sam swallowed. "Me too, Cas... me too."

* * *

On the day before the three week anniversary of her kidnapping, Ronnie was in the mansion's large (and almost entirely unused kitchen) making herself a pot of coffee when Dean entered. He was covered thoroughly in blood – practically reeked of it – and the First Blade was held in his right hand. He dropped it on the counter, moving to the kitchen sink and putting on the water full blast hot.

"'Sup," he said, nodding at her. She frowned, turning away from him and resuming mixing creamer into her coffee.

"Hi, Dean." It wasn't often the two of them crossed paths, and it was even less often that they ran into each other without Crowley around. She found herself understandably nervous as the encounter. A demonic Dean Winchester wasn't exactly someone she wanted to find herself alone with. The old Dean, absolutely, but not the newly damned version.

Dean washed his hands off in the sink, humming what she was fairly sure was "The Devil's Chasing Me". He splashed water on his face, cleansing the thickly caked blood from his skin there.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asked politely.

"Sure did," he replied, scrubbing some caked gore off of his chin.

Ronnie lifted her coffee mug to her lips, taking a deep sip. After she swallowed, she asked, "Dean, can I ask you something?"

Dean moved to dry off his hands and face with a dish towel. "Shoot."

"Do you miss it, at all?"

"Miss what?"

"Being human," she said. "You know… feeling human things, doing human things. _Being_ human."

Dean seemed to think for a long moment. He balled up the towel and tilted his head. "I miss being hungry," he said. "Kind of miss sleeping, too."

"Nothing else?" _Like your brother? Saving people, hunting things? Being good?_

"Wasn't much to miss," Dean told her. "My life sucked ass."

"And your life now?"

"I can do whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want to do it." Dean grabbed the Blade and began methodically cleaning it. She wondered why he didn't just snap his fingers to cleanse it. Then again, Dean didn't have the fine mechanics of demonhood down pat like Crowley did. "No responsibilities, no stress… I'm living the high life."

Ronnie gave him a tight smile. "Yeah. The high life."

"I can feel you judging me from over here."

"I'm not judging. I just wish you got up to activities that were less on the murder-y side. I have to see everything you do, so…"

"Sorry, Ronnie," Dean said. "I ain't planning on stopping any time soon. You better learn to enjoy the show."

Ronnie sighed. "Right."

"By the way, Crowley wants to see you."

She looked up from her coffee, surprised. "He does?" Crowley was still being distant with her, keeping his visits brief. He was still dosing up on the blood each night and doing his best to maintain his previously effortless control and composure during the day. "Why didn't he just come find me?"

"Fuck if I know. Go talk to him – he's in his office."

Ronnie nodded. She poured another cup of coffee. She didn't know if Crowley drank coffee, but she was hardwired from her time in the Navy to always bring more than enough caffeine for everyone present. There were some damn long nights in Iraq. The coffee there tasted like piss, but it kept them all going.

Two mugs in one hand, she exited the kitchen, leaving Dean to his Blade. In a few minutes she was at Crowley's door. She knocked. There was no answer, but the door swung open. Crowley was at his desk. His feet were up on the surface, and there was a long stretch of parchment piled in his lap. A red Sharpie cap was pinned between his teeth.

"Hello Veronica," he muttered around the cap, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

"For the ten thousandth time, it's Ronnie." She deposited one of the coffee cups on his desk. "I don't know if you've got enough human blood pumping through your veins to give you a caffeine jones, but I made you a cup anyway."

Crowley shot her an annoyed look. He plucked the cap out of his mouth and put it back on the Sharpie, tucking the marker behind his ear. He flicked his hand, shutting the door. "Say that a little louder, darling, I don't think the whole state heard you."

"Is it supposed to be a secret that you're shooting up?" She sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

"What do you think?" he snapped. "I'm a functioning addict. No one needs to know what I'm getting up to behind closed doors." He grudgingly took the coffee and sniffed it. After consideration, he took a deep sip. He made a surprised sound of approval. "That's actually not bad."

"My family owns a coffee shop in Annapolis," she told him. "Dean said you wanted to see me."

"I did. I do." Crowley set down the coffee and rolled up the contract he was proofreading, setting it off to the side. He slipped something out of his pocket. A ring. It was silver, engraved with intricate black runes that Ronnie didn't recognize. He tossed it to her, and she snatched it out of the air.

"Proposing marriage, Crowley? I can definitely say my parents won't approve."

"Hardy har. No. It's got an enchantment on it that I think will prove useful to you."

"Okay…?"

"I'm going to have to leave tomorrow. I might be gone for a particularly long period of time. I don't exactly fancy the idea of leaving you unguarded in a house full of demons-"

"_Your _demons," she pointed out.

"Yes, and because they're _my_ demons, I know they're bloodthirsty idiots, by and large. Not to mention, we both can agree that Dean's a bit of a menace right now. If he finds himself in a bad mood, you might end up on the pointy end of the First Blade. Given that you're a valuable asset to me, I'd rather that not happen."

"I'm touched. Still doesn't explain what the ring does." She twirled it, and it caught the light, glimmering.

"The ring allows you to see hellhounds."

"Hellhounds," Ronnie repeated. "Like-"

"Hounds of Hell," Crowley said slowly, patronizingly. "As in bark, bark, yes master, we'll drag these doomed souls down to the infernal pits of Hades."

"Lovely. Why do I need to see them?"

"Because I'm leaving my personal pup to protect you," Crowley said. The demon whistled, and Ronnie jumped when she heard panting right beside her. She looked to her left, but saw nothing other than a few damp droplets on the Persian rug.

"Is it there…?" She reached out tentatively and jumped when she felt heavy, moist breath on her hand, jerking her arm back. "Wow. Okay. Invisible dog. That's new."

"She won't be invisible if you put on the ring," Crowley said, seeming faintly amused. Ronnie was hesitant, but she slid the ring onto the ring finger of her right hand. She blinked, and then let out a strangled shout when she saw there was a six foot tall beast standing next to her, panting and wagging its tail happily.

She supposed it could be described as a dog, though the term would have to be used loosely. Its eyes were a brilliant crimson, not unlike Crowley's were when he revealed his true nature, and the hound's fur was propane blue. It had a kind of flickering haze about it, almost as if its very being was made up of flames. It was massive, built like a greyhound but three times bigger. It looked perfectly pleased at the moment and not the least bit murderous, but Ronnie had the feeling that could change in an instant, if Crowley ordered it.

"That… is a hellhound," she said. "Holy crap."

"Nothing holy about Juliet here," Crowley said, coming around his desk to stand next to his pet. He scratched her between the ears, and Ronnie would venture to describe the look on Crowley's face as loving, almost. It was the most poignant display of affection she'd ever seen from him. The hound barked happily.

"Juliet?" Ronnie repeated. "You named your hellhound Juliet? Are you a closeted Shakespeare fan, or something?"

"Haven't you learned by now that I'm not closeted about anything?" Crowley asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "It's a lovely name. Debatably an improvement over her predecessor's title, though a day doesn't go by that I don't miss him."

"What was your old hound called?"

Crowley paused, seeming almost… embarrassed? "Growley."

"Growley," she echoed. "Like… Crowley. Only with a G."

"Because he growled," the demon provided. Ronnie burst out laughing. Crowley seemed indignant. "It's CLEVER!"

"What are you going to do if you get a cat? Name it Meowley?"

"I had a cat, actually, but unfortunately he seemed to have wandered off while I was indisposed last year," Crowley said with a hint of melancholy. "And his name was not bloody _Meowley_."

"You could get a pig named Sowley. Or a chicken named Fowley."

"That's not even close to funny."

"A cow named Cowley."

"VERONICA."

"Okay, okay, I'll stop," she said, holding up her hands, but still shaking with repressed laughter. She looked up at Juliet – because the hound was indeed several inches taller than her – and she marveled at her with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "Will I get burned if I touch her?" she inquired.

"No. She'll feel a bit warm, but you won't be harmed by touching her. I'd avoid her teeth, though. Bit sharp."

"Yeah, I can see that for myself," Ronnie muttered. Slightly nervous, she reached up and set her hand between the hound's ears, where Crowley had just been petting her. She woofed, causing Ronnie to jump again. "Does that mean stop? She's not going to try to bite my head off, is she?"

"No, no. The woof means she's happy. She's actually quite gentle. She only gets feisty on my express orders, and I've told her in no uncertain terms that you are off limits," he shared, running his hand along Juliet's spine while Ronnie scratched behind her ears with a half-smile on her face. "Isn't that right, girl?"

Juliet barked happily.

"I haven't had a dog in years," Ronnie said. "When I was a kid, we had this little bulldog named Butters, but we had to put him down by the time I finished high school."

"You criticize me for Growley, but you had a dog named _Butters_?" Crowley said, giving her a pointed look.

"Hey, that was my parents' fault. They made the mistake of letting my little brother name him," Ronnie told him.

Crowley snorted. "Well, nevertheless, Juliet here will make sure that nothing unfortunate happens to you while I'm away."

"What are you doing, anyway?"

"I'm sure you'll see it tonight, so I won't bother explaining. I want to get the Crossroads back up and running, and that's going to take a fair bit of time and effort on my part."

Ronnie nodded. "Well, good luck, I guess, though I can't say I'm really that supportive of a neat business model created for the sole purpose of corrupting mankind."

"Don't you mean _soul _purpose?" Crowley asked with a hint of a smile.

"Are we done with the bad puns yet?"

"I bloody well hope so." He patted Juliet. "Alright, off you trot. I've things to do. I just wanted to loan her out to you while I was thinking about it. You can completely ignore her if you want, but some attention certainly wouldn't be out of place."

"I'll pay attention to her," she promised. "And Crowley? Thanks."

"Just protecting my investments," he said, going back to his chair and his contract. She simply smiled at him. If she didn't know any better, she'd say that the demon was developing a soft spot for her. She was just grateful that some of the awkwardness between the two of them had dispelled; if she was going to live with Crowley indefinitely, she didn't want it to be uncomfortable.

"Right. Still… thank you." She grabbed her coffee cup and made for the door. Juliet followed dutifully behind her. That would take some getting used to. "Bye, Crowley."

He looked up at her, the contract and Sharpie already back in his hands. "Bye, Veronica."


	17. Of Betrayals and Tables Turned

**Chapter 17 - Of Betrayals and Tables Turned**

* * *

_Sam was running. Footsteps pounded behind him – who was behind him? He was so tired. His legs felt like they weighed two tons each. Lights flickered overhead, and what was that smell in the air? That was sulfur. Demons. Were demons chasing him?_

_"_ _Slow down, Sammy! I just want to say hi!" _

_Dean. Oh God. It was Dean. Sam skidded around the corner, nearly losing his footing. Where was he? He had no idea. All he knew was that he had to run – because the thing behind him wasn't his brother. No. Not in any of the ways that mattered. _

_"_ _SAMMY!" his hard voice echoed against the walls of the corridor. "Come on, don't be like that!"_

_Hands were grabbing him. Slamming him to the ground. Dean was over top of him, grinning like some kind of animal. "Long time no see, little brother." His eyes flashed black. "I've got so much to tell you."_

Sam woke suddenly, sitting up in a rush that made his head spin. Fear gripped his chest with steel talons, and it took him a few minutes to even out his breathing and slow his rapid heartbeat. The cotton v-neck he'd slept in was glued to his skin with sweat. He plucked at it as he tried to push the remnants of the nightmare from his head.

That was what happened when he didn't drink before bed. He sighed, sliding his eyes to the clock. It was just past six. Early, but late enough that attempting to go back to sleep was pointless. He'd snagged about two hours. It was enough to get him through the day, though he certainly wouldn't feel great. But then again, when was the last time he actually _had_ felt great?

He pushed himself out of bed, running a hand through his slightly damp hair. He raked his fingers through it in a half-assed attempt to brush it as he exited his room and headed down the hall, the floor of the bunker cool under his bare feet. He found his way to the library, where his laptop was still open and on from when he'd been using it before he and Cas had gone to see Sadie in Lansing. Luckily it had been plugged in when they departed, so it wasn't dead.

He swiped his thumb across the pad, waking it up. He sank down into his chair and saw that he had several emails. It was the typical stuff, newsletters and updates from supernatural resource sites and weird happenings sites that he subscribed to, but the most recent one was from an email address he didn't recognize.

"Ronnie Whitaker?" he said the name. He was sure he'd never heard it before. He opened the email, curious.

_Sam,_

_Trace the IP address this email was sent from, then look for the nearest sawmill to that address. Crowley will be there by noon today. He'll lead you to your brother. Don't contact me; I don't know if someone's watching my internet activity or not._

_-a friend_

Sam stared at the email, not quite comprehending it. He and Cas had been searching for Dean and Crowley for weeks, and now suddenly there was some random tip dumped in his inbox? It was too convenient, too good to be true. It had to be a trap of some sort. But why would Crowley want him? He didn't have anything that the King would want... did he?

"Sam?"

Sam turned his head. Gadreel stood a few feet behind him. Sam was surprised – he hadn't even heard the angel enter the room.

"You're awake," he observed. "And healed. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you. I visited Castiel. He is asleep, so I did not wake him," Gadreel told him. "You look troubled."

"Yeah, well, Cas told me once that being troubled is a base component of my personality," Sam responded, still focused on the email. "I… think I just found a lead on Crowley."

"That is good, is it not?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "This smells funny to me."

"I was unaware that emails produced a smell," Gadreel said. Sam resisted the urge to face-palm.

"I mean, this feels wrong. It can't be this easy. _Nothing_ is ever this easy."

Sam opened up a new tab, searching for 'Ronnie Whitaker'. Gadreel observed silently behind him as he combed through the results. He eventually found a Facebook page, and the email address listed in the details matched the one that had sent him the email. She was apparently a twenty-nine year old Navy Chaplain from Maryland. Why the hell would someone like that be involved with Crowley?

Sam read her last post, dated about three and a half weeks ago. _"Out of the hospital today. Aside from a killer migraine, I'm okay. Thanks for all the well wishes, everybody."_

Hospital? With a furrowed brow, Sam delved deeper into the Chaplain's story. Ten minutes later, he sat back, staring at the screen.

"She's a prophet," he said simply. "She's got to be."

"How?" Gadreel asked. "Metatron made sure that no other prophets would ever be selected."

"Cas must've flipped some kind of switch in Heaven when he took back control," Sam said. "There were those freak thunder storms a few weeks back, but I thought maybe that was just a side effect of what was going on in Heaven, or…" He paused for a moment. "Or, another Knight of Hell being… born, or whatever."

"It appears not. So, this prophet is close to Crowley?"

"I guarantee he got his hands on her as soon as he could. But if she sent us this email… she's seeing visions. Like Chuck. She's seeing us." Sam tilted his head. "She's seeing us right now, I bet."

"That is strange to think about."

"No kidding." Sam went back to the computer, tracing Ronnie's IP address. "Ronnie, if you're hearing me right now? Thank you."

Soon enough, he had a location – in Nevada, not far from Reno, there was an old estate. It looked exactly like the kind of thing Crowley would go for. He searched the surrounding area for sawmills, and found one about fifteen miles away. It was abandoned, and had been as such for the past six years.

"Crowley's going to be here at noon today," Sam said, pointing at the satellite image of the sawmill. "This is our chance. If we get him and try to cure him again… I'll be able to break him."

"Are you doing this, then?"

"Yeah. I'm doing it."

"May I assist you?"

Sam looked at him. "You really want to go head to head with Crowley again? He's a lot tougher than he looks."

"I am not worried about Crowley."

"You should be," Sam said, shutting his laptop. "Underestimating him? That's a big mistake. That's the same mistake Lucifer made… that Dean made."

"I don't underestimate the demon, Sam. I am simply confident in our ability to best him," Gadreel told him. "Should we go now to investigate the area?"

Sam stood. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do it." He was surprised to find that the other angel's confidence bolstered his own to a certain degree. "Just let me write Cas a note, and we'll go."

* * *

Ronnie stared at her computer. Morning light filtered through the window. She closed the lid of the laptop Crowley had given her in order to read the remaining Supernatural books. She'd just finished _Free to Be You and Me _last night.

She'd either just made a very good decision, or a very bad one. She'd seen Sam receiving the email she had yet to send him in her visions last night, heard him thank her for something she had yet to do, and most importantly, she had seen Sam and Gadreel use her information to capture Crowley during his meeting with the Crossroads demon Bartimaeus. When she woke up, she knew what she had to do. She'd sent Sam the email exactly as she remembered it.

If Crowley wouldn't choose a side for himself, she would have to choose for him – and she was sure that more of the King wanted to be human than wanted to be a demon. There was good in him, she could see it, she _knew_ it was there… it just needed coaxing out.

Not to mention, with Crowley human and out of the picture... well, her chances of escape just increased ten-fold. She wasn't purely unselfish.

Ronnie pursed her lips, running a hand over Juliet's head. She made a happy kind of squeak at being petted. "I hope Sam knows what he's doing," she whispered to the hellhound. Unsurprisingly, Juliet offered no response.

* * *

_Cas,_

_I got a lead. Gadreel and I are going to take down Crowley. If everything turns out okay, we won't be gone long. I left you some fresh clothes out, and there's soup and ibuprofen in the kitchen. I don't know much about taking care of sick angels, but I hope it helps._

_Be back soon._

_-S_

"Sam..." Castiel muttered with a worried shake of his head. "I hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

The air smelled of sawdust and stale wood treating chemicals. Not a pleasant odor. Crowley could think of several hundred places he would rather meet Bartimaeus than here, but the other demon wanted discretion, so abandoned sawmill it was.

Crowley strolled through the open door of one of the long abandoned storage warehouses, hoping that he wouldn't sully his suit during his time there. Crowley's eyes wandered over the stacks of maple piled high to the ceiling. He wouldn't have to wait long for Bartimaeus. The other demon was nothing if not punctual.

"My King," a voice called from behind him. Crowley turned. Standing in the shadows in the far corner was Bartimaeus, his former right hand man. He sauntered forward into a shaft of light, reflecting brightly in the demon's blond hair. Bartimaeus's meat suit was tall and lanky, almost Sam's height, but not nearly as built. Thick-framed glasses rested on his nose, hiding sharp and intelligent blue eyes.

"Bartimaeus," he greeted politely. "So glad that you could drag yourself out from that rock you've been living under for the past year."

"Are we really going to start off like this, Crowley?" Bartimaeus asked him with an arched eyebrow, dropping any pretense of formality. Bartimaeus was one of the only demons that served him that wasn't afraid to speak freely in front of him.

"How would you like to start? Maybe by telling me why when I needed you the most, you were nowhere to be found?"

"If I put my neck out, the Queen would've stepped on it, we both know that," Bartimaeus countered. "I knew you would pull through and take the throne back, with or without me. If I had been under the impression that circumstances were particularly dire, I would've come to your aid."

"And what, pray tell, do you define as dire?" Crowley burst out, encroaching on Bartimaeus. "My head on the guillotine? Abaddon had my boys in a vice more than once since the angels fell. Where were you?"

"How about a better question: where were _you_?" the other demon demanded, a flash of anger in his eyes. "First, you disappear for seven months. No one knows where you are. By and large, you're presumed dead. Then, when you're finally spotted again, you're with Dean Winchester and his angel. The word gets out – vote Crowley. I had hope again. And then what happens just a few weeks later? You vanish! Again! You haven't exactly been a _leader_ this past year. How was I supposed to help you when you weren't even present?" Bartimaeus said coldly.

"I removed Abaddon from the throne. I took my kingdom back. Present enough for you?" Crowley asked shortly.

Bartimaeus closed the remaining distance between the two of them, and Crowley hated that the Crossroads demon towered over him. "_You_ took Abaddon off the throne?" Bartimaeus repeated. "That's not the story I've heard."

"And just who has been telling you stories?" Crowley asked, narrowing his eyes at Bartimaeus.

"Let's not beat around the bush, Crowley. Dean Winchester, really?" He huffed out a mirthless laugh. "I never imagined you stooping that low."

"This isn't the first time I've played puppet master to a Winchester, and I doubt it'll be the last."

"No, this isn't just you tugging on Rocky's strings. You gave him the Mark of Cain. You gave him the _First Blade_. You armed a hydrogen bomb, and now it's not your finger on the big red button."

"You lost the right to judge my leadership decisions when you ran out on me," Crowley hissed, temper flaring.

"I only did exactly what you would have done in my place," Bartimaeus retorted.

"Why does everyone seem to think that's a valid excuse for disloyalty?" Crowley growled out.

"You say tomato, I say tomahto. You say disloyalty, I say self-preservation."

"Yes, but what I say _goes!_ And what I say is that you're a bloody coward!"

"That's a bit of the pot calling the kettle black," Bartimaeus commented.

"Do as I say, not as I do," Crowley told him. "Let's talk about why we're really here." Crowley lifted his chin, appraising the other demon. "You want back in."

"I do."

"Why should I take you back?"

"You need me."

"Darling, the only person I need is _me_. Everything else is just gravy."

"No one can run the Crossroads like I can. I'm smart. I'm efficient. I learned from the very best," Bartimaeus reasoned.

"Oh, now you're trying flattery?"

"You're either going to kill me, or take me back. Let's stop pretending that you're not going to do the latter."

"Awfully confident, aren't we? You think I'll just let you back in with a bow and a promise." Crowley allowed his angel blade to fall out of his sleeve. He placed the tip underneath the other demon's chin. To his credit, Bartimaeus didn't flinch, though he did tense. "Tell me, have you ever known me to let anyone off that easily?"

Bartimaeus opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of the garage door of the warehouse slamming down behind the two of them. Crowley removed his angel blade from Bartimaeus's chin and whirled around.

"That's not a good sign," Crowley said.

"We've been found," Bartimaeus added, and Crowley heard the sound of the demon's retreating footsteps. "We're going to have to continue this little negotiation at a later date."

"Running, Bartimaeus? How perfectly in-character of you."

"I wouldn't have to run if you would have made sure that you weren't followed!"

"Oh, you think _I_ was followed? As if I'd be that careless!"

"If the past year has been any indication, yes, you most _definitely_ would be that careless!"

"Who's to say you weren't followed?" Crowley accused.

"_I'm_ to say! No one knew about this meeting. I didn't tell a soul," Bartimaeus bit out. "Enough. Arguing isn't getting us anywhere. I'm out of here." There was a beat of silence, and then Bartimaeus said, "Damn it, I can't blink out."

Crowley turned. "What do you mean you can't- bollocks." Crowley froze when he saw the dark shape behind Bartimaeus. Crowley made to issue a warning, but it was too late. The end of a very familiar looking knife was poking out of Bartimaeus's throat. The Crossroads demon's eyes flashed red, and he choked, blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth. Orange light glowed under his skin.

The blade was ripped out, and Bartimaeus fell to the ground, dead.

But then, Crowley noticed a flash of purple in the supposedly dead demon's eyes.

_Clever bastard. Illusion magic. I wasn't even talking to the real him... I taught him well._

He could be reluctantly proud of his former right hand man later. At the moment, he had bigger things to worry about. Much, _much_ bigger things.

"Hi there, Crowley," Sam said darkly, blade still dripping with blood.

Crowley swallowed, backing away. "Moose. It's been a dark age. How are you? Still haven't tamed the mane, I see." He tried to teleport, but like Bartimaeus, he found his efforts were in vain.

Sam's grip on Ruby's knife was white-knuckled. "Drop the angel blade."

"And why would I do that?" Crowley asked. "You think I can't take you? Please."

Sam simply smiled, the upturn of his lips predatory. He scuffed his boot over some of the two inch thick sawdust, and after a moment, Sam uncovered a line carved into the floor before backing away. It took Crowley only a second to realize what Sam had done.

"Devil's trap," Crowley sighed. He dropped the angel blade to the ground with a clatter. He was trapped, and his powers were useless. Fantastic. Juliet was his best shot, but he wasn't going to call on her until he deemed it absolutely necessary - he didn't want to leave Veronica unprotected. "Who tipped you off?"

"Doesn't matter," Sam said shortly. "Get in here!" the hunter shouted, surely to Castiel.

Crowley heard the flutter of wings behind him. Another sigh, more irritated than the last. "Hello Cas." He moved to face the angel, but was surprised to find himself staring at someone's chest. He looked up.

"Not quite," Gadreel said. Before Crowley could even offer a response, a large hand was covering his head. Instantly, darkness swallowed him.

* * *

Crowley woke slowly, then all at once. He knew where he was very quickly. How couldn't he? After all, those four walls had been his home for over half a year. He was chained to the chair in the Men of Letters' dungeon. Demon handcuffs around his wrists, the familiar collar around his neck.

Lovely.

"You're awake." Crowley craned his neck to look behind him. Sam stood there, arms crossed, staring down at him like he was hoping to literally pierce him with his gaze.

"Bringing me home without even buying me dinner? That's just trashy," Crowley snarked. Sam rounded the chair, halting in front of Crowley. He'd never seen the moose look so haggard. His ridiculously long locks were a lank mess, and the circles under the hunter's eyes were so dark that they seemed almost bruised. He was pale, like he hadn't gone outside in weeks.

"You look like nine kinds of Hell," Crowley observed. "Not taking the loss of Brother Bear so well?"

"I know what you did to Dean."

"I didn't do anything that wasn't already on track to happen," Crowley said dismissively.

"I'm going to make you pay."

"You think killing me will make your brother human again?" Crowley snorted. "It won't make any difference at all. In fact, it'll invariably make things worse, as I'm the one holding Dean's leash." Granted the leash had been broken, but Sam needn't know that.

"This isn't about turning Dean human. This isn't about controlling him, or saving him. No, this is about _you_, Crowley."

"About killing me nice and slow-like, I'm sure."

"No. I'm not gonna kill you." Well, that was an unexpected turn of events. What did Sam want then, if not his life? Help, most likely, but what in the world would Sam care about if it wasn't his newly demonic brother?

"You know, if you wanted a pow-wow, you didn't need to break out the whips, chains, and devil's traps… not that it doesn't make things more interesting."

"You just don't get it, do you?" Sam asked, his eyes glittering almost madly in the fluorescent lights of the dungeon. "You took everything from Dean... and from me. You did the only thing that's worse than death. You made him the thing that he hates more than anything else – you made him into a monster."

"A monster like me, yeah?" Crowley cocked his head. "You don't even know how wrong you are. I saved your brother." From death, at the very least. "Firstly, I didn't turn him into a demon, the Mark did. I didn't know what was going to happen to Squirrel, not really. I merely did him the favor of dragging him back through the veil after Metatron skewered him. If I hadn't called your brother back, he'd likely be stiff as a stone right now. And secondly, your brother didn't hate demonkind more than anything else. Dean hated himself far more than he could ever hate any of us." Crowley straightened his shoulders. "I freed him from that."

Sam reacted predictably, slamming his massive fist into the side of Crowley's jaw. His head jerked back, and he groaned. Bloody Moose had a hell of a right hook.

"I warned him over and over and over again. I told him not to trust you. I told him we had to get rid of you, but he wouldn't listen, and he wouldn't act. We should've killed you when we killed Abaddon."

"And then you would be down a sibling, and Hell would be in chaos. Fat lot of good that would do," Crowley spat.

"Dean is gone! My brother is _gone!_ Dean's a demon, Cas is dying, and – and-" Sam turned around, his back to Crowley, and pushed his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath.

"Then kill me," Crowley challenged. "Kill me if it'll make you feel _good_, Moose, but it won't bring Dean back. Nothing will."

"Shut UP!" Sam punched Crowley again, even harder that time. Crowley let out a pained exclamation, the side of his face throbbing at the impact. The bruises he was going to have after today…

"That get your motor running, eh Sam?"

"I'm not gonna kill you, you son of a bitch. I'm going to do something much worse. I'm gonna make you pay for what you did to Dean. Dying is too good for you." Sam put his hands on the arms of the chair that Crowley was bound to, his face only inches from Crowley's. He could smell the hunter's breath: whiskey. Not surprising.

"I'm going to cure you, Crowley."


	18. The Worst of All Your Fears

**Chapter 18 - The Worst of All Your Fears**

* * *

"I'm going to cure you, Crowley."

It was a dramatic statement. If tradition would've been upheld, there would've been an intense zoom-in on Crowley's horrified expression, and then an abrupt cut to black, followed by three minutes of commercials.

But things were different, now. Crowley met Sam's gaze. The hunter's eyes were blazing with the passion of a man with a mission.

Crowley promptly laughed in his face.

Sam's ever-so expressive brows dipped down in anger, no doubt unhappy that the air had been let out of his metaphorical balloon.

"Nice try, Moose, but we both know you can't cure me," Crowley said, tilting his head to the side and smirking up at the hunter. "We've both seen how this ends. You and I go all the way? You _die._ Not to mention, the Gates of Hell get slammed shut, meaning your precious Brother Bear goes bye-bye forever."

It was Sam's turn to smirk. "You're not wrong," the younger Winchester admitted. Sam turned away from Crowley, making his way to a cabinet on the east wall of the dungeon. "But luckily, I've found a way around that problem." A door with a dusty mirror was pulled open, and from within, Sam took out a blood bag. He held it up for Crowley to see. "AB negative. Just like mine," Sam said, and Crowley wished his hands were free so he could throttle the self-satisfied look off of the hunter's face. "In eight hours, you're going to be just as human as I am."

"Please," Crowley scoffed, trying to appear unfazed. "With Azazel's blood pumping through you, you barely deserve to be called human." He glared at the moose unflinchingly. "You're a mutt trying to pass as a purebred."

Sam was still smirking as he reached back into the cabinet and withdrew a pack of hypodermic needles, just like the ones Crowley had stored in his own desk at home. "Insult me all you want," Sam said, turning his back on Crowley to fill the first syringe. "It's not going to get you out of this one."

"Has it occurred to you that I just enjoy insulting you?" Crowley replied, eyes fixed on the tense draw of Sam's shoulder blades as he worked. A sudden thought occurred to Crowley, and he smiled. The cure had to be performed on hallowed ground, didn't it? And they were currently in the Men of Letters bunker - i.e., not a holy place. Crowley was just about to begin internally celebrating when he noticed the various damp spots scattered in a haphazard circle around the devil's trap that held him.

He sniffed the air. Salt.

Damn it. The Winchester had thought to sanctify the dungeon. Crowley found himself wishing for a moment that the hunter was indeed as stupid as he looked.

_Doesn't matter_, Crowley thought to himself. He would find a way out of being cured, one way or another. One Winchester and Heaven's Least Wanted were no match for him. No match for a King.

Once the syringe was filled, Sam went to Crowley's side. He entwined his fingers in Crowley's hair and forcibly jerked his head to the side, revealing his neck over the top of the iron collar. Sam stabbed the needle in without hesitation, pushing the blood into Crowley's system. Crowley shivered against his will, feeling ice cold for a moment before the familiar wave of heat crashed over him. It was all he could do to hold back a sigh of pleasure, instead settling for his eyes slipping closed as the needle was pulled out of his neck. He hadn't had any blood since the night before last, and he'd been feeling the beginnings of withdrawal symptoms.

Crowley could feel the Winchester's judgmental gaze on him. "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?" Sam asked, and Crowley could hear the disgust in the hunter's voice. Crowley blinked open his eyes, looking up at Sam.

"Don't you dare pretend you're better than me," he said in a low voice. "Out of everyone in the world, you have the least right to judge me for a blood addiction."

Sam glared at him, but Crowley could see that he'd rattled him. "Go to hell."

Crowley lifted his chained hands. "Gladly," he hissed out.

Sam discarded the now empty syringe to the side, lip twitching in restrained anger. "See you in an hour," he said stiffly before heading out of the dungeon and into Room 7B. The secret door made of steel shelves shut behind him, and the light flickered off, leaving Crowley alone in the darkness.

* * *

Sam only made it a few feet down the hallway outside of Room 7B before a flutter of wings sounded behind him, signifying Gadreel's presence. Sam turned to face the angel, who looked grave.

"How goes the cure?" he inquired.

"It goes," was all Sam offered in response. "What's up?"

"Castiel is up," Gadreel provided. The angel had been sleeping heavily when the two of them had returned from capturing Crowley. "He wishes to speak to you."

Sam didn't need to ask about Cas's condition. If he was in such bad shape that he couldn't get out of bed and find Sam himself, the angel was truly in dire straits.

Sam nodded. "I'll go talk to him," he said, making to move past Gadreel. However, the angel reached out a hand and wrapped it around his arm, halting his progress. Sam almost shuddered at the contact. His hair stood up on his arms, and it seemed like a current of electricity was running through him.

His body seemed to acknowledge the entity that had once occupied it, a quiet call of _I know you _resounding within him.

Gadreel seemed to notice his somewhat visceral reaction to being touched by him, and he quickly dropped his hand, looking apologetic. "I do not believe Castiel has much time left," the Garden's former guardian told him. "I fear for his life, and I fear what might happen in Heaven if he perishes."

"The angels who don't want the apocalypse will be running around like chickens with their heads cut off," Sam said darkly.

"I have never observed the actions of headless poultry, but I will take your word for it," Gadreel responded. Sam resisted the urge to bash his head against the wall. "Sam, I think it is time to speak to Metatron."

Sam sighed. "Cas and I, we talked about it... but he seems pretty sure that Metatron used up all of his Grace when he closed the Gates."

"Perhaps," Gadreel conceded. "But if there's the faintest chance that Metatron still has a fragment of Castiel's original Grace stored somewhere..." The angel pursed his lips. "Even the smallest sliver of his original Grace could be enough to save him, to give him the strength he needs to regenerate the remainder of his Grace on his own. It is a lead worth pursuing."

"I'm not disagreeing with that, but if Metatron does still have Cas's Grace, the only way he'll give it up is if you let him out of Heaven's prison, which you _can't do_. He's too dangerous."

"I will find a way," Gadreel insisted. "I will not allow Metatron to escape in my endeavor to retrieve Castiel's Grace."

"How am I supposed to believe that?" Sam asked, an edge in his voice. "You're not exactly an expert in resisting manipulation, Gadreel."

Gadreel's jaw tensed, forming a hard line. "I will not fall for Metatron's tricks this time."

Sam watched the angel, trying to decide whether he trusted Gadreel to secure Cas's Grace without releasing the bastard they'd spent the past year trying to take down into the wild. Then again, did he really have a choice? It was either go to Metatron, or let Cas die, and Sam couldn't – _wouldn't_ – lose him.

"Fine," he eventually said. "Don't make me regret trusting you."

"I will not," Gadreel swore. "I will go to Heaven, now. Luckily, our faction is still in control of Heaven's prison."

"Okay. Good luck," Sam said. Gadreel bowed his head respectfully, and then promptly vanished with a flap of his wings.

Sam sighed, carding a hand through his tangled hair, worried that he may have just given Metatron the key to his freedom. Sam weaved his way through the hallways of the bunker until he reached the room Cas was currently occupying. He knocked on the door.

Sounds of coughing filtered through the wood before Cas managed a haggard, "Come in."

Sam pushed into the room and was greeted by the sight of Cas sitting on the side of the bed, hands hanging limply between his spread legs. Cas was clad in the clothes Sam had laid out for him that morning. An old Queensryche shirt of Dean's, and a pair of his older brother's favorite sweats. It was almost disconcerting, seeing Cas in Dean's clothes. Like his brother's ghost was haunting the very fabric.

_Dean's still alive! _he screamed inwardly. "Cas," Sam said the angel's name, and Cas lifted his head. His face was drawn, and white as a sheet. His cheek bones stood out in sharp relief against his gaunt skin. He had a five o'clock shadow and bed head that only served to make him look more ragged.

Hell, he looked practically... _human. _

Like a dying human, anyway. Sam felt his heart clench in his chest at the thought.

"Hello Sam," the angel croaked. It was then that Sam noticed the sheen of wetness in Cas's eyes, turning blue sky into sparkling water.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked immediately. "Other than the obvious, that is?"

Cas licked his dry, cracked lips, hands going to grip at his knees. "It seems I... I can't walk any longer."

Sam just stared at Castiel, unsure of how to respond, unsure of what to do. He had trouble wrapping his head around the idea of Castiel, the mighty angel of Thursday, being unable to even stand. He wasn't sure that he'd ever felt so bad on anyone's behalf in his entire life, except for perhaps when Bobby had faced the same problem.

Sam made his way to the bed and sat down next to Cas. The angel stared firmly at his feet. "Cas... I'm so sorry," Sam said, watching Cas's face. He clenched his teeth when he saw a tear escape Cas's eye and trail down his cheek. A wave of emotion rose in his chest.

"I had what-" Cas broke off into a harsh coughing fit before continuing. "I had what you would call a moment of clarity." Cas finally met Sam's eyes, and Sam saw a depth of sorrow there. Sorrow and fear. "I had the realization that-" His voice broke, and he pinched his eyes shut. "That I... I really don't want to die, Sam."

"Hey, Cas. _Hey_," Sam said, putting a hand on Cas's shoulder and gripping it tightly. He could feel how violently the sick angel was trembling, and Cas's fever-hot warmth bled through the fabric of his t-shirt underneath Sam's palm. "Look at me," Sam urged, coaxing the angel's eyes open. When Cas obeyed him and met his gaze once again, he said, "I'm not gonna let you die. Gadreel's got a lead with Metatron, and even if that doesn't pan out, I will find _something_, okay?"

Cas was silent for a few long moments before he whispered, "My friend, there are some things that can't be fixed."

Sam squeezed Cas's shoulder. "I don't believe that."

Cas dropped his gaze, coughing a few times, blood staining his lips. "You're a good man. I don't tell you that enough," the angel said hoarsely, wiping his mouth. "But that is not what I wanted to speak to you about."

Sam released Cas's shoulder. "Crowley," he sighed.

"Yes," Cas confirmed. "What do you hope to accomplish by curing him, Sam?"

"I want to find out where Dean is. If I put the pressure on, I think Crowley will break and tell me," Sam replied.

"If there's one thing I know about Crowley..." Cough. Cough. Wince. "...it's that he never gives up information without the promise of getting something in return," Cas told him. "Dean's location will not be free, if he chooses to offer it up at all."

"Look, Cas, the Crowley you knew? The one you worked with? That Crowley's _gone_. Ever since we tried to cure him the first time around, he's been off his game. That human blood addiction of his, that's how we're gonna ruin him. He can't think straight when he's high on the stuff. He lets his emotions get in the way. I'm gonna use that to my advantage."

Cas looked doubtful of the idea that Crowley could have emotions at all. "There's more to this, isn't there, Sam?"

Sam stared at his hands. Flexed them. "I want to make him pay, Cas."

He felt no judgment from the angel. "I understand that, but if revenge is your goal, why not just kill him?" Cas asked. "Crowley values his own life above all else."

"We've talked about this before," Sam said. "I don't want to just kill him and be done with it. I want him to feel guilt for everything he's done."

"You don't just want to kill him... you want to destroy him," Cas surmised.

"Yeah." Sam swallowed. "It's no less than he deserves. I want him to suffer like Dean's suffering, the real Dean. And if I can use him to find my brother in the process? All the better."

"But what will you do once Crowley's human?" Cas inquired.

Sam's expression was dark when he said, "Then I'll put him down."

Cas nodded. "I swore to him that I would be the one to carve the heart out of his chest when he betrayed us, but I think... you deserve that honor." Cas stifled a cough in the crook of his arm before continuing. "But Sam? Be careful. Crowley will say or do anything to save himself. Offer up any deal. Do not fall for any of his manipulations."

"I won't let him get to me," Sam assured him. "You don't need to worry."

* * *

He hated being back.

Gadreel's entire vessel was tensed when he arrived in Heaven, in the office Metatron had occupied before Castiel had ripped him from his false throne. The fragments of the angel tablet and Metatron's typewriter were scattered around in splintered pieces on the floor, having never been cleaned up. An angel sat by the angel radio, monitoring several frequencies and taking notes from time to time. Her expression was grim. She didn't seem to even notice his presence behind her.

"Ambriel," he called, catching her attention. She turned, appraising him with soft brown eyes that reminded him of a doe.

"Gadreel," she greeted coolly. Ambriel, like most of the angels under Castiel's command, was wary of him and reluctant to speak to him, but out of respect for Castiel's wishes, she was not openly antagonist towards him. "What do you need?"

"I need to enter the prison," Gadreel said with difficulty. In Metatron's former office, his skin crawled. Once he was in the prison, though, he would want to crawl _out_ of his skin. He would want nothing more than to escape.

Ambriel gestured vaguely towards the door that let out of the trashed office. "Go ahead. No one's even guarding it."

"No one is guarding Metatron?" Gadreel demanded, incensed.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but the rest of us have been a little busy," Ambriel replied, throwing him a withering look. "He's locked down. There's no possible way he can get out."

Gadreel exhaled sharply, still not pleased with the lack of security measures surrounding Metatron. He would have to speak to Castiel about it later. Without further discussion, Gadreel exited Metatron's office and made his way into the hallway. He entered the elevator that waited for him there, hitting the button for the basement floor. The doors slid shut, and the elevator began trundling downwards.

With every floor the elevator descended, his anxiety grew. Anxiety gave way to panic quickly enough, and Gadreel felt sweat break out on his brow. His vessel suddenly seemed incapable of getting proper amounts of oxygen into his lungs. The walls were already closing in on him, and he wasn't even in the prison yet. He felt like they were getting closer... they were surely going to crush him.

He had to get out. He _needed_ to get out.

"Enough," he hissed. "You are free. _You are free_," he reminded himself.

The doors opened with a ding. He was half-sure he was going to vomit on his shoes, which would be a shame. They were nice shoes, by all accounts.

Gadreel's legs seemed unable to obey his commands when he tried to move out of the elevator. He took a deep breath that still didn't seem like enough air, and then forced himself forward, stumbling slightly as he entered the long concrete corridor with cells lining each side.

He smelled blood, but he knew it was just a ghost of a memory, of tortures long-past. The blown out wall and crumbled concrete to his left told him that no one had been to the prison since Metatron had been imprisoned in his permanent cage.

How strange to visit the prison as a free angel. Stranger still to visit the place where he had died. It was that thought that drove him on. He had sacrificed himself. Died... and then he had been resurrected, drawn back from the ether and given life once more. His Father must have had a plan for him.

Perhaps saving Castiel was part of that plan.

Metatron was in the very last cell on the left. It was a confining space. Seven feet and four inches wide, and six feet two inches long. He knew every intimate detail of that particular cage. After all, it had once been his home. The only four walls he knew after he let Lucifer into the Garden.

"Well well well... look who came crawling back."

The angel who had once claimed to be God sat on a small cot, his arms and torso bound by a straight jacket that heavily restricted his movement. Metatron glared at him, eyes cold and lips curled into a sneer.

"I figured it would only be a matter of time before you showed up here," Metatron continued.

Gadreel's brow furrowed. "Last you knew, I was dead. Why would you assume that I would return here?"

"I was at the tippity top of the food chain for over a year. I know more than could possibly fit into that petrified walnut you call a brain," Metatron snarked. "Now why don't we skip the pleasantries? Exposition is boring, anyway. What the hell do you want?"

"I want Castiel's Grace," Gadreel said, wasting no time.

Metatron adopted a look of false innocence. "Oh, I wouldn't know anything about that."

Gadreel lifted his hands and wrapped them around two of the bars, gripping them tightly. He hoped it would hide how badly he was shaking. "You lie. The last person to ever see Castiel's original Grace was you."

_Walls closing in. Can't breathe. Need air. Need out._

Free, free, free. He had to keep reminding himself. Nothing was stopping him from leaving. He was in the prison by choice.

"And?" Metatron asked petulantly. "It was an ingredient in a spell. I shut down Heaven, and poof! All gone. So please tell Castiel from me that he's crow food. Oh, and that I hope it's a slow, painful death."

Gadreel almost felt sick with disappointment. Metatron seemed such a viable option, but apparently he held none of Castiel's Grace. He turned his back, making to leave.

"BUT," Metatron's loud voice behind him halted Gadreel. "If you're willing to... _parlay_, maybe we could come to some kind of agreement."

Gadreel huffed out an irritated sigh, but he returned to Metatron's cell nonetheless. "I have no interest in making deals with you," Gadreel informed the scribe.

"And yet, you're here..." Metatron smirked. "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

"My name is not Clarice," Gadreel stated.

Metatron rolled his eyes in a long-suffering manner. "_God_, you angels are so literal." He cleared his throat. "Let me spell it out for you: if you do something for me, I'll do something for you in return." He smiled at Gadreel, but it was clearly false. "Everybody's happy."

"I'm not letting you out," Gadreel immediately responded, recalling Sam's warning.

"So hostile. Who says that's all I want?"

Gadreel was already growing very tired of the conversation. "Speak plain. What is it you want from me?"

"Let's start small. How about a piece of juicy gossip?" the scribe said.

"What?"

"_Information_, Short Bus."

"Oh. Fair enough. What do you want to know?"

"Who's at the top of the Heavenly totem pole? _Please _don't tell me it's Castiel."

"It is," Gadreel answered firmly. "Castiel leads when he can. While he's away, either Hannah or myself command Castiel's forces."

"You're telling me that you're back in Heaven's good graces? After everything you did?" Metatron asked, incredulous.

"I'm trying to atone for my sins. Sins I committed under _your_ orders," Gadreel responded, voice sharp with anger.

"I'm sorry, did you forget about the fact that you are single-handedly responsible for driving God away and corrupting mankind? Or did that little tidbit slip your mind?"

"Enough," Gadreel growled. "I answered your question. Now you will answer one of mine."

"The anticipation is killing me."

"Does anything remain of Castiel's Grace?"

"Yes," Metatron answered with a nod. "My turn. You said 'Castiel's forces'. Does that mean there's a new power rising in the west?"

Two could play at that game. "Yes."

Metatron waited for him to say more. When it became obvious that Gadreel had no intention of sharing further, Metatron let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Next question."

"Where is Castiel's Grace?" Gadreel asked.

"Close," was all Metatron said. "Who leads the opposing faction?"

"Asmodel."

"Huh. Should've seen that coming."

"How much of Castiel's Grace remains?"

"Enough to keep him breathing," the scribe answered. "Why the in-fighting?"

"Asmodel wishes to open the Cage and restart the apocalypse," Gadreel answered tersely.

"_Seriously?_ Armageddon is so 2010."

"Just how close is Castiel's Grace?"

"Very," Metatron replied. "Just how far are you willing to go to get it?"

Gadreel swallowed. "Name your price."

Metatron rose to his feet, encroaching on the cell wall. "You know my price," the other angel said, something dark and desperate in his eyes. "Freedom."

"No. I will not release you."

"Then get out of my sight," Metatron snapped. "That's the deal. You want to save poor, dying Castiel? Let me go. Otherwise? Screw off."

"Surely there's something you want-"

"Yes, there is something I want. I want to GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" Metatron shouted.

Gadreel took a step backwards, away from the seething angel. "No. You are too much of a risk to set free," Gadreel insisted, turning from the scribe. "I cannot do that." Although it pained him to do so, he walked away, heading for the elevator. Once again, Metatron's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"What do you think the angels are going to do to you once Asstiel's not around to protect you anymore?" Metatron shouted after him. "The rest of his angels will turn on you in a second, and when they do, guess what will happen to you? You'll end up right. Back. Here."

Gadreel bowed his head. He wanted to contest Metatron's statement, but a part of him knew that in the event of Castiel's death, his re-imprisonment was a likely scenario. Fists clenched at his side, Gadreel looked over his shoulder and met Metatron's angry glare.

"At least I'll have company," Gadreel responded in a monotone, just loud enough for Metatron to hear him.

Without another word, he left.


	19. Always and Never

**Chapter 19 - Always &amp; Never**

* * *

There had to be a way out.

There was _always_ a way out.

But no one knew the four walls of the Men of Letters dungeon better than Crowley. He knew every minute crack in the concrete floor, every dried blood stain, every torture implement that hung on the wall, every particle and atom of that goddamned box. For a very large majority of seven months, his only company had been the darkness, the walls that surrounded him, the subtle drip of a pipe that left a permanent spot of moisture in the back left-hand corner of the dungeon.

He knew there was no way out. Not when he was in chains and devoid of movement and power.

So, what to do?

Crowley's blunt fingernails scraped against the arms of the chair he was bound to, his foot tapping incessantly, marking time with the _drip drip drip _of the leaky pipe. The blood in his system should've served as a distraction to his racing thoughts and slowly growing panic, but due to the meager dose he'd received and just how bollocksed he currently was, it didn't do much to calm him.

But there was that warmth, that blossoming heat in his chest, that tight but delectable pain...

Yes, there was always that.

He hated himself for it, but a part of him was anxious for Sam to return and give him another shot of the blood. He never had the feeling of truly being sated, of having had _enough_, but to have a taste and then to be left quite literally high and dry for an hour was incredibly frustrating.

He counted the seconds in his head, knew exactly how long it had been since Sam administered the first dose. Exactly sixty-two minutes after Sam had left Crowley, the shelves were pushed apart, Sam's large figure casting a long shadow into the dungeon.

Crowley pretended that he'd lost track of time. Pretended he wasn't terrified. Hiding the fact that he was jonesing for more blood, however, was another matter entirely.

"Moose. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"If only I could be so lucky," Sam replied, not missing a beat. The hunter went to the cabinet to Crowley's left, no doubt to prepare the next syringe.

"Tell me something, Samantha... what exactly do you hope to get out of all of this?" Crowley asked. "In the grand scheme of things, how will curing me fix anything? Dean will still be a demon, Castiel will still die a horrible, painful death, and your life will still be the same tragic tela novella it's always been. I'm chaotic neutral, get me? Taking me off the board, what's that _really_ going to accomplish?"

Sam shot Crowley a sharp look over his shoulder. "How do you know about Cas's Grace issues? Did Dean tell you?"

Crowley crossed his arms, chains rattling. "I have my sources. You think I don't read the trades?"

Sam watched Crowley closely for a moment. "You have the new prophet, don't you?"

Crowley was surprised Sam had come to that conclusion so quickly. "Don't be silly. There are no more prophets. Kevin was the last in line."

"Nice try, Crowley. We saw the omens."

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the hunter. "Does it really matter to you?"

"You having a way to spy on us and decode tablets, if there are any left? Uh, yeah, that _definitely_ matters to me–"

"No, I don't think it does," Crowley cut across him. "I think as soon as the Dean Winchester you knew drew his last breath, you stopped giving a damn about anything and everything."

Sam slammed the cabinet shut with force, his entire body tight and stiff as he turned, syringe in hand. Crowley's eyes fixed on the crimson liquid held within the vial. He swallowed reflexively, the dwindling fire in his chest yearning to be stoked.

"You don't know anything about me," Sam said in a low voice. "Stop pretending that you do."

"Oh, Moose-y... I know you better than you know yourself," Crowley responded, trying to keep his voice even. "I've read the _Supernatural_ books. Fascinating tour through that ticking time bomb you call a psyche. And if there's one thing I've learned about you – and Dean, for that matter – it's that the only thing in the entire bloody universe you two give a rat's ass about is each other."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it, though? The entire world could burn, Heaven could fall and Hell could rise up, and none of it would make any difference to you, so long as the two of you stay alive and stay together," Crowley pressed. The only weapon left in his armory were his words. The best he could hope for was to rattle Sam's cage enough to get him to make a mistake, something Crowley could exploit.

All he needed was a crack – just one crack, and he might be able to get himself out of the jam he was currently stuck in.

_But do you really want to escape? _a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, and bloody hell, he still couldn't stop staring at that syringe.

"I took your Precious away..." Crowley continued, trying to focus on the task at hand. "And now, what do you have left? An empty hole in the ground and a terminal velocity angel." Crowley scoffed. "You've got less than nothing."

"I do have something," Sam insisted, jaw rigid with anger. When he was pissed, Sam greatly resembled his older brother. He raised the needle. "I have _this_. I have the power to make you pay for what you did to Dean."

"I set your brother free," Crowley hissed, trying to move his attention from the blood and meet Sam's stormy gray eyes. "I let him be what he's always _been_. I let the lion out of the cage."

It was a lie, but Sam needn't know that.

"You were always supposed to be the evil one. The boy king. Well, the powers that be clearly got it wrong, didn't they?" Crowley sneered. "Dean was the one with the real potential... that special killer instinct."

"You ruined him," Sam whispered, nostrils flaring. "_You_ did this to him."

"He wanted to be a demon. I just helped him along the way," Crowley responded. "No more little Sammy holding him back. Just a boy and his blade, happily ever after... forever." Crowley let out a short, harsh laugh. "You know he hasn't said your name even _once_ since he turned?"

Another strategic lie.

A large fist connected with Crowley's jaw a split second later. Crowley wasn't surprised. Good. An angry Sam was a far more malleable Sam. Ignoring the throbbing in his jaw, Crowley said, "There's no going back for Dean, and now you're alone and you have _nothing_. All you can do is take out your misery on me– your misery and self-hatred, because you–"

Another blow, that time directly to Crowley's mouth. Blood poured over his lips and down his chin, but even as Sam grabbed Crowley's collar and shook him hard, he pressed on.

"You could have stopped Dean, but you didn't, you didn't lift a finger to save your own brother. You turned your back on him." Crowley grinned at Sam with bloodstained teeth. "So, he chose me instead. A demon over his own flesh and blood. How's that make you feel, Sam? To know that Dean abandoned you and went to _me_?"

Sam forced Crowley's head to the side, revealing his neck and the solitary needle mark there. Without hesitation, Sam stabbed the syringe into the soft flesh, administering the next dose. Crowley gritted his teeth, muscles involuntarily turning to mush as soon as the blood was introduced into his veins.

He let out a gasp– stifled and short, but a gasp all the same. The room seemed to tilt around him, and his head fell back, hitting the back of the chair. His skin felt super-heated, and a swipe of his tongue over the skin of his upper lip told him that he'd broken out into a sweat.

It was like he was drowning, and each dose allowed him a few stolen breaths above the waves.

Sam watched him with a look of utter abhorrence. "God, you're a monster," he said, voice not much more than a growl.

"Takes one to know one, my darling," Crowley replied breathlessly. Heat. So much heat. He closed his eyes.

Sam pocketed the syringe, turned his back on Crowley, and exited the dungeon. A moment later, the door to Room 7B closed.

But the shelves remained open.

Crowley wiped the blood from his face, room still spinning around him, and he smiled.

* * *

Gadreel returned to the bunker in low spirits. Spirits that only dipped lower when the first thing he heard upon entering the foyer was Castiel's muffled coughing in the distance. Gadreel descended the steps with a deep frown. How was he to explain to Castiel what had happened in Heaven's prison? That there was something left of his Grace, but the only way to gain access to it was to release Metatron?

Hope was dwindling by the second, and it seemed like Castiel was slipping faster and faster by the day. He wished it was within his power to halt time. Or better yet, he wished he could save Castiel himself without Metatron's help.

Gadreel owed Castiel more than the other angel would ever truly grasp. Castiel had been the first being to genuinely give him a second chance. He made the mistake of thinking that Metatron could offer him such redemption, but Gadreel knew now that the Scribe had simply been manipulating him for his own purposes.

But Castiel... Castiel had believed in him, in spite of his many crimes. He had allowed Gadreel to prove himself, to atone for all he'd done.

No one had ever done that for him before.

Soon, Gadreel found himself standing outside of the room Castiel currently occupied. "Castiel?" he called.

"You can come in, Gadreel."

Gadreel entered Castiel's room. The angel sat cross-legged on his bed, a stew pot in his lap. The pungent aroma of _sick_ hung heavy in the air. Castiel gripped either side of the pot, his shoulders hunched and his skin ghostly and tinged green.

"Have you been vomiting?" Gadreel asked, concerned.

Castiel winced. "Please don't say vomit."

"My apologies."

Cas waved him off. "It appears all of my organ systems are failing..." He coughed hard, his whole body jerking with each one. After a few seconds, Castiel managed to recover and continue. "...failing simultaneously. I... find myself missing the complications of my stolen Grace being mostly respiratory."

Gadreel approached Castiel, trying not to let his pity for the other angel show. He didn't imagine Castiel would much appreciate the sentiment. He could practically feel the heat rolling off of Castiel in waves, making the bedroom suffocatingly hot.

"Are you still unable to walk?"

Castiel grimaced, the lines of his vessel's face seeming to deepen. "I tried, but..." He shook his head. "They are too weak to support me."

Gadreel pursed his lips. "Brother, I... I spoke to Metatron."

Castiel's eyes shut for a long moment. "I'm guessing it didn't go well?" he asked quietly.

Gadreel briefly fell silent, trying to find away to relate the events to Castiel. "He... Metatron claims that part of your Grace remains, and he knows its location, but he refused to tell me unless I–"

"–freed him," Cas filled in. His eyes opened. "Which we can't do."

"Castiel..."

"It's not your fault," Cas told him. "I didn't expect your trip to Heaven's prison to turn out well. Saving me–"

Castiel burst into another coughing fit, and that time, Castiel was forced to duck his head and vomit a disturbing amount of blood and bile into the bucket. Gadreel waited patiently for Castiel to finish. After a few minutes, Castiel weakly lifted his head, dragging his sleeve across his mouth and shuddering.

"Saving me is the last thing Metatron wants. I took everything from him."

"You showed him mercy," Gadreel reminded him. "No other angel would've shown him that kindness, would've allowed him to live."

"What I did wasn't kindness. Death would've been merciful, compared to spending all of eternity alone in a cell. I spared him because I wanted the other angels to know that killing is not always the answer... almost never the answer... and because I wanted him to face all that he'd done... all he'd destroyed. In hopes that someday, perhaps... he would feel remorse."

"He did not appear very remorseful when I spoke to him," Gadreel said darkly. "Allowing Metatron to live was a wise decision, but a part of me still wishes he could pay for his crimes with his life."

Cas swallowed, face turning an even deeper shade of green for a few seconds. Luckily, the wave of nausea seemed to pass.

"There aren't many things that I believe in with all I have, Gadreel, but one of the few ideals I have absolute faith in is that no one is truly beyond redemption." The angel muffled a cough into his hand, face drawing and pinching in deep pain. "I did... horrible things, in the past. Deeds worthy of Metatron– worthy of _Lucifer, _even... but I was given another chance to do better. To heal, and to help... to fix all that I had broken. Friends I thought I had lost forever... they forgave me. They took me back. And some days... some days, I almost feel good again."

"You _are _good."

A sad smile from Castiel. "Maybe. But regardless, if an angel who broke Heaven, committed genocide, claimed to be God, and released the Leviathan on humanity can find redemption, it is possible for anyone."

Gadreel met Castiel's eyes. "Even the angel responsible for the corruption of mankind?'

Castiel's gaze, even though it was dimmed somewhat by illness, still held a burning intensity to it. "Yes," he said simply.

Gadreel ducked his head, unsure of how to respond. "I wish my conviction was so strong as yours."

"Gadreel, you are not nearly as evil as you seem to think you are."

Gadreel paused for a moment, touched by the sentiment. "Thank you, Castiel. I swear to you... I will do everything in my power to find a way to ease your suffering."

Castiel exhaled raggedly, a sound of sorrow. "Sam says we'll find something," he said. "I suppose all that's left for me to do is trust him... and you."

Gadreel bowed his head. "I can only hope I prove myself worthy of your trust."

Castiel gave him a ghost of a smile. "You have so far." The angel cleared his throat. "Actually, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Yes?"

Castiel's expression grew serious. "Keep an eye on Crowley. Chained or not, he's still incredibly dangerous."

"Of course." He made for the door, but Castiel stopped him.

"I appreciate that you want to keep me alive, but I don't want you to do anything you might regret. Do you understand?"

A hint of Castiel, the commander, the Seraph, seemed to be shining through. An angel trying to keep his charge from being reckless.

"Of course," Gadreel repeated, but the words tasted like a lie. "I understand. Yes." He turned his eyes away from Castiel's. "You should rest, brother. I will see you later."

"Goodbye, Gadreel. Be careful of Crowley."

"I will."

Gadreel departed the room, heading towards the Men of Letters' dungeon. He spread out his awareness, wondering where Sam was, and detected his presence in the library. He was on the computer, as usual. No doubt hunting down leads on either the Horsemen rings or his brother.

He didn't see the need to be directly in the room with the demon, so he decided he would stand as a silent guard in Room 7B. However, when he pushed into the room that was stacked high with shelves of files, the shelf doors were open.

Crowley's eyes had been distant and distracted upon his entry, but once they alighted upon Gadreel, the demon grinned.

"Ho-ho. Look what the cat dragged in. The red-headed step-child of Heaven," the demon drawled, settling back into his chair and seeming half-pleased. "Haven't seen you in a dark age, darling. What are you going by now? Ezekiel? Gadreel?"

"I have nothing to say to you, demon."

"Why not? I'm quite interesting."

"Not to me. I am here only to guard you."

"Boring." Crowley's head tilted to the side. "Isn't this an unexpected turn of events? The very thing that got me out of this fetid pit in the first place was me agreeing to carve you out of Gigantor. And now, here I sit, stuck in that very same pit... with _you _as the watchdog." A tight, wry smile. "How quick humans are to forget, eh? Humans and Castiel, that is. Though I doubt that he's in any shape to be making decisions..."

"I am confident Castiel will recover in due time," Gadreel replied stiffly. He approached the shelf wall, intending to close it. He had no interest in speaking with the chained King.

"That's now what I hear."

"Then you have heard wrong."

"Don't play dumb, Gadreel. It's really not a good look on you." Crowley shifted, handcuffs and collar alike rattling. He had seen the demon so many times through Sam's eyes, but it was different now, seeing him with no taint of how Sam felt towards him. Sam hated him. Truly... deeply. For many things. Sam saw an evil king worthy of nighttime stories told to scare children.

From where Gadreel stood, he looked like nothing more than a broken demon bound to a chair. It was Crowley's eyes that really struck him; they were a deep green, with black pupils blown wide. They were rimmed by redness and shadow... they seemed haunted.

Human, almost.

He supposed the cure was already beginning to take effect.

"Running out of options for Cas, aren't you? I'm sure you and Moose are desperately grasping at straws... though Hell only knows why you would want to help Castiel. Last I saw, he wanted to draw and quarter you for letting old Snake Eyes into the Garden. He probably would have spiked you right then, if Dean hadn't pulled him off of you. Good call, possessing Sam, as he's a living, breathing Achilles heel for everyone around him."

"Sam and Castiel have kindly... overlooked some of my more recent transgressions."

"Like killing Kevin and taking Sam's body for a joyride? And then helping that egotistical git Metatron murder anyone who got in his way?"

The conversation he was currently having with Crowley was actually strongly reminding him of the one he'd just had with Metatron. "There is such thing as forgiveness, though I would not expect a demon to understand."

"Hmph. I understand more than you think. And the Winchesters? Castiel? They don't forgive. _Ever. _Trust me, I've done nothing but hold their hands and bake cookies for them over the past year, and _this _was my thanks," the demon gestured down at his current predicament. "Once you've reached the end of your usefulness, they'll either kill you, or you'll end up in here, caged like an animal... of course, you already know what that's like, don't you, Gadreel?"

Gadreel glared at him. "What you did to Dean is unforgivable. You overestimate just how valuable you are to the Winchesters."

"Neither of them would be alive if it wasn't for me. Actually, _no one_ _in the world_ would be alive if it wasn't for me, because it's only because of me that they were able to SAVE THE BLOODY PLANET IN THE FIRST PLACE." Crowley's eyes brightened with rage for a few moments, and then dimmed. "Castiel will be dead soon enough, so I suppose that doesn't matter, but Sam? Oh, he doesn't forgive or forget."

"I don't forgive monsters."

Gadreel was surprised to see Sam standing behind him, expression grave and gaze dark. "Sam–"

"Why are you here, Gadreel?" the hunter cut across him. There was no venom in his voice, just... wariness.

"Castiel instructed me to guard Crowley."

"Do it from the hallway. You're better off away from him."

Gadreel felt the desire to argue, but after a moment, he conceded. "As you wish. I will be outside if you have need of me."

Gadreel left, leaving Sam Winchester with the King of Hell.

* * *

"Time for round three, Moose?"

"What were you trying to do with Gadreel?"

"Get a strip-tease out of him, obviously. I'm dreadfully bored in here, and what can I say, I have a thing for the big, muscle-bound types." Crowley grinned lecherously at him, but the innuendo rang hollow. Crowley's voice was rough, not smooth, and there was no glimmer in his eyes. Crowley always looked like he was laughing at some private joke, but today, it seemed the joke was finally over.

"He's not going to let you out, you know."

Crowley snorted. "Don't count your chickens before they've hatched, mate."

"When are you going to get it?" Sam asked. "You're not getting out of this one, Crowley. This is the end of the road for you."

Crowley just looked at him. "Haven't you learned by now that nothing ever really ends?"

"Everything ends," Sam said, heading to the cabinet.

"What are you going to do, in the event that you're actually able to cure me? I won't just vanish once you deliver that last dose. I won't just _end_."

Sam opened up the cabinet, reaching for syringe number three. However, he halted, deciding to address Crowley's question first. He turned back to the demon, drawing his pistol from where it was stored in his holster. He lifted it, and Crowley's eyes fixed on the weapon. "You asked me what this was for, the last time I cured you. Do you remember?"

_"The knife, I get... but what's with the peashooter?"_

_Sam paused for a long moment before saying, "It's for you... once you're human."_

_Crowley seemed to take that in, showing no reaction other than a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Ah... good thinking, Moose." He pursed his lips. "Should've seen that coming."_

Crowley blinked. Sam knew he remembered. "You really think you'll be able to go through with it? Killing me as a demon and killing me as a _human_, well, those are two very different things. What little is left of that moral compass of yours might actually kick in. And then what will you do with me?"

"I'm not going to kill you, Crowley," Sam said lowly. He took a step forward, and he put the barrel of the gun directly to the demon's forehead. He didn't even flinch, just stared at Sam with dilated pupils that were blown so wide, his eyes looked black. Black, like the demons he so often claimed to be better than. "In five hours, you're going to put this gun in your mouth, and you're going to blow your brains out. _That_ is how this is going to end. You're not strong enough to survive the guilt."

Crowley played unaffected, but Sam saw it, just a glimpse... for a second, there was tangible, human fear in Crowley's eyes. All he could think was _good. _

"And they say _I'm_ the bad guy," was his only reply.

"Trust me: you are." Sam holstered his pistol before turning his back on the demon and returning to the cabinet and the syringes. "Look at it this way, Crowley. At least you'll go out on a high note."

Crowley offered no response that time.

Soon enough, Sam was standing next to the King, syringe number three held between his thumb and pointer finger. Crowley glared up at him.

"I am going to get out of here," Crowley assured him. "And when I do, I'm going to show you a _special_ kind of Hell, Moose."

Crowley's head was tilted up just enough that Sam was able to stab the needle into his neck. He delivered the third dose, and once more, Crowley's expression briefly became one of fulfillment. Sam hated seeing that look on Crowley's face. It reminded him far too much of his own addiction to blood, though his was arguably worse than Crowley's. Crowley was addicted to being human... Sam had been addicted to being a demon.

_"Out of everyone in the world, you have the least right to judge me for a blood addiction."_

Sam hated him for it, but it was true.

But he was better than Crowley. He'd beaten his addiction. If the way Crowley's eyes slipped close and the sharp intake of breath was any indication, the demon had relapsed at some point since he and Dean forced a detox on him. Once a junkie, always a junkie.

Sam slid the syringe into his back pocket. Crowley's eyes were still closed.

"You won't win this," the demon growled.

"I already have," Sam responded bluntly.

He left the dungeon – making sure to close the shelves behind him, that time – and once more, Crowley was alone in the darkness. Right where he belonged.


	20. Tangled in the Great Escape

**Chapter 20 - Tangled in the Great Escape**

* * *

_"In five hours, you are going to put this gun in your mouth, and you're going to blow your brains out."_

Ronnie didn't know whether it was her own fear that forced her out of her vision, or the fact that Juliet was pawing at her leg. Unfortunately, given Juliet's not-unimpressive size, that ended with Ronnie's ass colliding hard with the floor. Juliette was in her face, whimpering and nudging her cheek with her wet nose.

"What's wrong?" Ronnie asked, sitting up. A second later, she realized what exactly had disturbed the hellhound. "Oh. _Oh. _You know he's in trouble, don't you, girl?"

Juliet barked. Ronnie took it as a yes. Fascinating that Juliet could somehow sense that Crowley was in mortal danger, even though he was hundreds of miles away. She wondered just how much the hellhound was connected to her master. Ronnie reached up, running a hand over her flank, an idea hitting her. Ronnie still wasn't sure just how much people-talk the dog understood, but...

"Can you find Crowley, girl? Can you bring me to him?"

A woof from the hellhound. Juliet rose. Ronnie let out a muffled screech of surprise when Juliet hooked her teeth into the collar of her shirt and lifted her up, placing her back on her feet. The hellhound then bounded towards the door of Ronnie's quarters. She waited patiently on her haunches, watching Ronnie expectantly.

Huh. She was like a demonic Lassie. If only things were as simple as Crowley being stuck in a well.

"Okay," she said under her breath. "Breaking out of a mansion full of demons with a hellhound to go rescue another demon. Normal day."

She wanted Sam to cure Crowley, not kill him. Crowley didn't deserve to die, regardless of his crimes. He could be great as a human, she was almost sure of it. Killing him served no purpose. If Crowley was killed, by Sam's hand or his own, his blood would be on her. She was the one who gave him up to Sam.

She got him into this mess, and now she had to get him out of it.

She pushed open the door, and Juliet padded through, tail wagging. Ronnie stopped for a moment, the full realization of what she was about to do settling on her. She was going to try to escape from the clutches of dozens of demons– not to mention Dean, a veritable Knight of Hell. Then, after that, she was going to try to save the King of Hell from a hunter and two angels who could kill her with their hands tied behind their backs.

She could theoretically inform Crowley's men of what had happened to the King, and they would probably launch a rescue mission themselves, but that would most likely end in either all of the demons being killed and Crowley still being cured and then murdered, or the demons would win, and would kill Sam, Gadreel, and Castiel. Neither option was favorable.

_And going by yourself is? What are you thinking?_

Juliet whined.

"One second, girl," Ronnie told the hound. She ran back into her room, quickly throwing all of her possessions and clothing that she could find back into the suitcase she'd brought with her from DC. She didn't have much, so it only took her a few minutes. She'd probably forgotten a few things, but right now, that didn't matter.

Juliet scratched at the ground, urging her to hurry.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Ronnie met the hellhound in the hallway. "We need to be quiet, okay?" She put a finger to her lips. "_Quiet. _No one can see us."

"Going somewhere?"

She turned. Forfax – the bulky demon that typically guarded the hallway her room was in – was standing right behind her.

"Uh." Ronnie gave him a nervous smile, trying to come up with an excuse, but she knew that there was really nothing that could get the demon to let her pass. "Well, you see..." She backed up a few steps.

Ronnie proceeded to throw her suitcase at the demon, hitting him square in the face. She then promptly bolted in the opposite direction. Juliet was on her heels, footsteps so heavy on the floor that it seemed like the hound was shaking the entire building. Ronnie skidded around the corner, and she could hear Forfax coming after them.

"HEY! The hell do you think you're doing!?"

"Running, what's it look like?" she yelled over her shoulder. She and Juliet reached the stairs, and Ronnie took them three at a time, nearly tripping and taking a header down the steps. Ronnie was dismayed when they reached the ground floor and were cut off by two demons who must have heard the commotion coming from upstairs.

Juliet's demeanor transformed in a second. The docile hound melted away. Her eyes glowed red like hot coals, and she snarled, propane-blue fur standing on end. She launched herself at the first of the two demons. The other came at Ronnie, but she wasn't completely defenseless. He tried to grab her, but she easily dodged, sweeping his feet out from under him and sending him to the ground.

Chaplain or not, she'd been trained for combat. She knew how to fight, and she wasn't about to go down easily. As Juliet tore the other demon to pieces, Ronnie dodged strike after strike from the one she was battling. He was heavy-handed and far too slow in his movements. Given her small size and how light she was on her feet, it wasn't difficult for her to keep from getting badly injured, though he did successfully land a hard right hook on her cheek that sent her reeling back onto the steps.

Hands from behind her dragged her up. Forfax. He twisted her arm at an awkward and painful angle, and she had to stifle a shriek, struggling in his grip. The demon Ronnie had just been fighting was now on the ground, Juliet on top of him. With a growl that sounded like a crack of thunder, the hellhound ripped the demon's throat out.

"JULIET!" Forfax shouted, furious. "Heel! Damn it, _heel_!"

Juliet's eyes went to Forfax, a practical blood riot waiting in the crimson depths. Ronnie almost had to scoff.

"She doesn't obey anyone but her master," Ronnie told him. With effort, she managed to twist out of Forfax's grip. She dove away just as Juliet tackled the demon.

By the time Ronnie was on her feet again, he was dead. The smell of blood hit Ronnie hard, and she had to support herself on the wall. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to keep the bile from rising in her throat. No matter how much death she'd witnessed, both recently and when she was deployed, she would never get used to it. Also, seeing people (demons, whatever) getting ripped to pieces by hellhounds... well, that was a whole new level of carnage.

Juliet nudged her, nearly knocking her over again. Ronnie looked down at the hound, who was back to being as tame as a domestic dog. The only thing that betrayed what had just happened was the blood matted in her jowls and on her razor sharp teeth.

"Right. Escaping. We're escaping." Ronnie gathered herself. She bent down next to Forfax, checking the sheath on his hip. "Ah-ha... this is an angel blade, isn't it?" She drew the silver short sword out, and it seemed to shine in the light from the artisan sconces that decorated the walls. Finally, she had a weapon that could actually prove useful in a fight against the supernatural.

She heard more footsteps coming from above. Juliet whimpered.

"Let's get out of here, girl." Ronnie rose to her feet, and she sprinted out of the stairwell and into the hallway. Maybe she could make it outside without running into anyone else–

"Ouch."

Ronnie collided headfirst with Dean's chest. The hunter-turned-demon barely budged, but the crash sent Ronnie to the ground. She looked up, and she saw that Juliet was poised between she and Dean, a low growl continuously rumbling in her throat.

Uh-oh. Not good. Very not good.

Dean peered down at her, almost seeming confused. "Are you taking Crowley's dog for a walk...?"

"Does it really matter to you?" Ronnie challenged. "I'm Crowley's problem, not yours. Just let me go."

"Oh, okay. You're trying to run away. It's about friggin' time," Dean commented. She noticed that his hand was resting on the First Blade's hilt.

"Does that mean you won't try to stop me?" she asked hopefully.

Dean snorted. "And pass up a good fight? Not a chance." Dean drew the First Blade, and Ronnie's heart sped up in her chest. "Plus, I've wanted an excuse to gank Crowley's new pet bitch since it nearly ate me a few months back."

"Dean, don't do this."

"Yeah? And why shouldn't I?" he challenged, twirling the Blade.

"Because..." She fumbled for words. "Because it's wrong?"

Dean paused for a moment.

Then, he laughed.

"Thing is, sweetheart... I don't have to give a damn about what's right and wrong anymore."

His eyes flashed black, and he attacked.

Dean and Juliet collided, the two of them crashing to the ground and then wrestling violently, a writhing mass of dog and demon. Ronnie didn't want to leave the hellhound to fend for herself, but Ronnie was perfectly aware that she didn't stand a chance against Dean. The Knight was immortal and unkillable.

So she ran.

And ran.

And ran.

She made it to the front doors. She shoved them open, bolting down the front steps of the manor. Okay. She was outside. Now how to get past the gate?

"Car. I need a car," she muttered under her breath. She traced the drive that weaved through the property. There was a parking lot around the side, wasn't there? She'd seen it out her window. There were always a few black SUVs parked there, along with a stretch limousine and an old car she recognized as a black Bentley. She raced around the side of the building. Demons stationed around the grounds noticed her and immediately gave chase.

She just had to get to the parking lot. She would have to take the Bentley, as the newer vehicles probably wouldn't be able to be hot-wired.

She was tackled to the ground just as she reached the parking lot. The side of her face and her palms met the pavement, scraping her skin. She winced, struggling under the demon that had taken her down.

"You really think you can get away?" the demon asked. She recognized the voice as belonging to Laharl. He eased up on her slightly, flipping her over. She was surprised to see a lack of anger or menace in his eyes, more of an urgency. "And by that, I mean: do you really think you can get away without me opening the gate for you?"

"I think I can figure out how to get the gate open by myself," she half-snarled, landing a well-aimed punch to Laharl's jaw.

He restrained her hands, wincing, but looking more irritated than pained. "God, humans are thick! I'm trying to help you, idiot!"

Okay, she was confused. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Take a car, get to the gate. I've got it covered," he told her in a hurried whisper.

"Why do you want to help me?"

"Juliet's tearing up everyone that gets in your way. Means she wants you to get out, and Juliet only does things that'll help Crowley," Laharl explained in a rush. "Crowley ain't picking up his phone. Something's gone sideways, hasn't it?"

She nodded quickly. "Very sideways."

"Go. Hopefully between you and the dog, you can get him out of whatever jam he's in."

"Wow. That's awfully nice of you."

"Crowley's my boss. He goes down, I don't want to know what happens to me. Now quick, stab me somewhere non-lethal with that angel blade. I don't want it to look like I helped you get away."

"You want me to stab you?"

"Just do it!"

"Alright, alright!" Ronnie scrambled for her stolen angel blade. The weight felt unfamiliar in her hand, but it wasn't unusable. She stabbed it into Laharl's thigh, careful to miss his femoral artery. He gritted his teeth and grunted in pain.

"Sorry!" Ronnie squeaked as she pulled out the blade, which was now covered in blood and reeked of iron and sulfur. Had she really just apologized for stabbing a demon? _God help me._

"Shit shit shit– okay, go! GO!" Laharl sputtered as he rolled away, clutching his leg. Several demons rounded the bend of the mansion, heading for her.

"Thank you," she whispered to Laharl, and then she darted towards the Bentley. She didn't hesitate, busting out the driver's side window before reaching in and unlocking the door. She was in the car a moment later. She leaned underneath the steering column, hoping she would have enough time to hot-wire the car.

She heard barking from outside. And screaming. Ronnie smiled to herself as she worked. "Good girl," she muttered to herself.

After about a minute and a half, the engine roared to life. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. Once she was up and properly in the driver's seat, she saw several demons were dead in the parking lot, most of their bodies torn to the point where Ronnie could barely tell that they'd ever been human bodies in the first place.

The Bentley shook. Ronnie was confused for a moment before she realized that Juliet was scratching the side of the vehicle, wanting entrance. Ronnie reached back and fumbled with the handle, opening it up for the hellhound. She quickly clambered in, adjusting her large mass on the backseat. She took up the entirety of it. Ronnie noticed a large, bleeding gash on her side. No doubt a souvenir from her fight with Dean.

Ronnie didn't bother closing the door. Instead, she floored the engine, pressing the gas pedal down to the floor. The momentum that drove them forward slammed the door shut. Wind whipped her hair into her eyes, but through the curtain of orange, Ronnie could see the gate.

It still wasn't open.

She sped towards it anyway.

"Come on, Laharl."

Barely twenty feet away. She didn't let up on the gas.

_God, a little help here? I may be going to save the King of Hell, but I know You didn't send me here to die in a head-on collision..._

The gates started spreading open, but she was going sixty, and she wasn't sure that they were going to be fully open by the time she got there. She braced herself for a crash, hands tightening on the wheel. When the speeding bullet the Bentley had become reached the gate, it was only open about six feet.

_Just make it through!_

Both mirrors were ripped off, and Ronnie shuddered at the sound of the sides of the car being gouged, but the Bentley made it out of the gate, hitting the road hard. She breathed out a chest-deep sigh of relief. She didn't know where the hell in Nevada she was, but she would find her way to Crowley as quickly as she could.

She didn't know how far ahead she was seeing with her visions. From what she'd gathered, it was often only about a half an hour to an hour, though sometimes it was longer. Which meant she probably had about four hours to get to Crowley and stop his death.

Juliet woofed.

"Don't worry, girl," Ronnie said. "We're gonna find him."

_I just hope we find him before it's too late._

* * *

Things weren't looking good.

_Fifty six minutes and two seconds, fifty six minutes and three seconds, fifty six minutes and four seconds..._

Crowley could feel it. The high he had now, it wasn't the same experience as it was when he shot up himself. His body – not, not his body, his very _essence _– it registered what was happening, and it was writhing and fighting against it. Just like last time. The sensation of having your very self torn into two halves, demon and human, it was excruciating on a level that could not be put to words. It wasn't pain in the conventional way, no... it was something soul-deep.

The soul that was getting stronger seemingly by the minute, by the second (_Fifty six minutes and forty nine seconds)_. It was more than just a mere, wavering flicker in the storm-worthy winds of his blood-red smoke, now. It was burning brighter, burning hotter, worsening his pain yet simultaneously granting him at least a version of the high he typically chased.

It was one hell of a bad trip, though.

He knew from personal experience that it was only going to get worse from there on out.

Hours one through three? Anger mixed with indifference. Hour four and five were comprised of desperation, bargaining, more anger. Hour six: rage and fear combining into a clusterfuck of emotional instability. Hour seven meant deep, wrenching sorrow. Hour eight... catatonia and painful introspection, for the most part.

All while being torn apart on the inside.

_Fifty seven minutes and thirty two seconds._

He was going to have to use every tool in his arsenal to get out of the cure. He didn't want to bargain with Moose, didn't want to give him anything, but if it saved him from both curing and death alike, it would be worth it. If he was cured, and then killed, that would presumably mean his soul would descend down to Hell. Meaning he would have to relive Hell all over again. Centuries of torture and agony.

Or, maybe he was all out of second chances. Maybe that final bullet through his head would be the very end of the road, and he would simply... go into nothingness.

A strange and final thought, that.

Finality was not something Crowley liked. In fact, he rather hated endings.

_Fifty eight minutes and seven seconds._

He was shaking. Sweating. Already falling apart, and he wasn't even halfway to being human. The road ahead of him was simultaneously long and short; short in terms of time, but long in terms of where he was to where he would soon be.

Human.

He was going to become _human_.

He'd never been so scared in his life. His long, painful, frightening life.

_Fifty nine minutes and two seconds._

The ultimate end looming in front of him was a terrifying, shapeless thing; humanity. Death. Damnation, or... well, he decided to leave that blank.

Apparently you _could_ overdose on human blood.

He didn't doubt what Sam had told him, about not being able to live with the knowledge of all he'd done. He could already feel it in him, the change, the deep, dark one that made everything _hurt_ in the worst way. Even now, only halfway through the cure, his view was changing, the guilt creeping in like freezing jack-frost over his mockery of a conscience.

His victories were turning into atrocities. Brilliant plots were becoming stomach-turning schemes. Torture sessions that had him whistling and gave him a skip in his step were now making him sick.

He had been so good at being evil.

_Perhaps it's for the best that you die. What would you do as a human? You'd be nothing. This life, being a demon, it's all you know. _

Crowley gulped. His throat felt like sand-paper.

_One hour and three seconds... four seconds... five seconds... six seconds..._

The shelves spread apart, and the light came on. Crowley blinked several times, shying away from it. "You're late," he muttered.

Sam simply glared at him. He set about preparing the next syringe, back to Crowley, not even bothering to acknowledge him.

"This is pointless," Crowley told him. Still nothing. He took a deep breath. Consummate businessman. He needed to be in control, now more than ever. "I can give you things, Sam. Everything you want. All you have to do is let me go, and we can both pretend this little incident never even happened."

Sam went to his side, syringe in hand. "Really, Crowley? Everything I want? Can you make Dean a human again?"

Crowley fell silent. If only he could. "I can give him back to you. I can deliver him to you, tied and trussed. It'll be a tearful family reunion. Though Dean might be crying blood. I don't know how it works with Knights of Hell. I'll even make a deal with you, binding contract and all. I'll never go near you or your brother again. All you have to do is..." He lifted up his handcuffs. _"Click."_

"No."

"No?" He could see the hope in Sam's eyes, that temptation, but it disappeared almost as fast as it had come. It vanished swiftly and was replaced by a cold, slate gray gaze.

"No," Sam reiterated. "I have no interest in getting anything from you–" _Lie._ "–I told you what was going to happen."

"Don't be daft. Why kill me when I can– I can _help_ you!"

"Because I don't want your help!" Sam said forcefully. "Dean going to you for help ended with him dying and getting turned into a demon. Anytime we ever went to you, the consequences have outweighed any help you've ever given us. You help us stop the apocalypse? You take Bobby's soul, and then put me back on Earth soulless for a year and a half. You help us take down Dick? You let Cas and Dean get trapped in Purgatory and kidnap Kevin. You kick Gadreel out of me and help us take down Abaddon? Dean dies, and the Mark of Cain takes over." Sam shook his head. "It's never been worth the price. Ever."

"Everything comes with a price. That's how the world works!" Crowley said loudly. "And you can say that it wasn't worth it, but without my help, the world would've ended a long time ago."

"That doesn't make up for anything you've done. Not even close. You don't even get how much pain you've caused, how many lives you've ruined."

Sam didn't know that each second that passed, Crowley was gaining more and more of that understanding. With each breath, there was more clarity. His deeds seen through the lenses of humanity. It hurt more from heartbeat to heartbeat... and it was only going to get worse.

He wanted to scream that he was sorry, that he didn't know how to do anything other than destroy things, break things. That the dark was _inside of him_ and he couldn't stop because that's what being a bloody demon **meant **and he'd never seen a way to escape–

But he didn't say any of those things

"You want to talk about how many lives you've ruined, Moose?" Crowley challenged, venom in his words. "After all, you're the one who let Lucifer out of his pen. And tell me, when was the last time you actually tried to _exorcise_ a demon instead of killing them? They are riding humans, you do remember that, don't you? Or the last time you had second thoughts about killing an angel, knowing that their vessel was a living, breathing human with hopes and dreams and pets, or whatever it is you worry your little head about?"

"That's different."

"The hell it is!" Crowley snapped. "You don't get to decide what qualifies as _bad _and what doesn't!"

"You torture and maim and destroy without a second thought! You've killed hundreds– probably thousands of innocent people! Before you were King, you damned more souls to Hell than it's even possible to count! You've slaughtered demons, angels, humans, whatever you needed to do to get yourself farther, to get more power." Sam's eyes were thunder storms, and anger radiated off of him in waves. "Cas has told me stories. Things you did when you were searching for Purgatory. You're darker than I've ever been, even at my absolute worst."

"Did your boy scout angel happen to tell you about the things _he_ did when we were looking for Purgatory?" Crowley growled. Of course Castiel would spin it so it looked like Crowley was the one doing all the crushing and carving, while Castiel was off being the valiant hero battling Raphael. "Have to say... Castiel was a remarkably quick study when it came to torture. Best student I've ever had. _Very_ creative. Had a real passion for it." Crowley flicked his eyes up to meet Sam's. "And don't you talk to me about dark. You've got me trapped in here for the sheer, sadistic pleasure of destroying me from the inside-out, and then watching me splatter my brains on the wall."

"You're a monster. I'm putting a stop to you, permanently."

"Don't pretend you're doing this for noble reasons!"

"This conversation's over," Sam said firmly. Before Crowley could prepare himself, the needle was in his neck, pressing... pressing...

The heat was getting unbearable.

He blinked. Tears traced down his cheeks.

_Bloody hell._

There was a chasm forming inside of him. Demon on one side, human on the other. And dear God, what a war they were having. Crowley shuddered, practically _convulsed_. Sam was already turning away from him, heading for the door.

"Just because I am the villain..." Crowley called after him, voice wrecked. Sam halted. "Just because I'm the villain of this story, doesn't mean you're the hero."

Sam stood there, stock still.

And then, he left.

Crowley leaned his head back, tears coming fast. The flow wouldn't be stopped. Fear and heat. Heat and fear.

_Villains always lose, _a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"No," Crowley muttered to himself. _"No."_

_You are going to lose everything._


	21. Somewhere in the Between

**Chapter 21 - Somewhere in the Between**

* * *

Crowley was starting to remember things.

Things like the smell of tanning leather. The prick of a sewing needle against skin. The damp heat of high summer in Scotland, the salt hanging in the air, a gift from the sea pushing against the cliffs.

Human things.

The hour between his fourth and fifth injection may have been the longest of his life, and that was saying something. He was high – _oh,_ was he high – but not so much that it blurred his perception of time. Each second crept along, seemingly slower than the last. It was maddening.

He just wanted it to be _over._

(No. Over meant _death_, over meant _gone_, and gone was unacceptable.)

He could hear Cas coughing, muffled and echoing through the halls of the bunker. He wasn't the only one who would soon meet his maker. Though if the whole 'leader of fallen humanity' thing was anything to go by, his maker was likely the last person he was about to meet...

His thoughts wandered, breaking apart and drifting, losing any semblance of sharpness. Being human hadn't been good for him. Forced to fend for himself since he was a child, abandoned by a mother who didn't want to be burdened with him. Trapped in what was more or less a glorified labor camp until he was sixteen, working for a pittance, getting tossed out on his ass when he was deemed no longer useful.

Crowley idly wondered if he had abandonments issues.

Demonic memories slowly began to overlap his human ones, and that was when things began to get truly horrible. Because it wasn't all the poor sods he'd put on his own rack that came into his thoughts, the murder, the bloody aprons and the metallic _clack_ of a scalpel thrown onto a steel cart.

No. It was Hell.

His first time in Hell.

If he focused hard enough, he swore he could hear Fergus –_(himself?)_ – screaming.

He couldn't say what it felt like... to be in pain for so long, that everything else was erased. To see the endless reaches of space and know that at the end of everything there was only horror and nothing... at least for him, anyway. To suffer without hope, without relief, as time stretched onwards to infinity... to lower yourself to the point of begging for death, only to be rejected by it time and time again.

Because it was too late. He was already dead.

Hopelessness, in the end, was all that Hell truly was. The absence of tomorrow. Just pain, and pain, and more pain... forever. He hadn't realized then, that they would make him a demon. He thought what he had in Hell... he thought it was all he would ever have.

That was what he felt, now. And this time around, there would no be Lilith to pull him off the rack, to smile at him with teeth that were too sharp and too white and say, _"Oh, this one's special."_

No one was coming to save him.

"More than halfway there."

He looked up. Sam was in front of him, blood-filled needle in hand. How hadn't he noticed him coming in? Or filling the needle, for that matter.

"You look pretty out of it," Sam commented, crossing over the outer line of the devil's trap.

"I'm clear as crystal," Crowley said, though it was a half-hearted proclamation. "Ever think I've just gotten bored of you?"

Sam ignored him. He bent over Crowley, syringe in hand.

"What are you going to do once he's dead?" Crowley rasped, because there was still time, still ways out, he just... he just had to _find them_.

He was bloody _Crowley_. He always found a way.

Sam paused, syringe hovering just a few inches from Crowley's neck. Crowley tried to keep his eyes averted, focusing on his shoes... but the blood was so damn close, he could practically taste it.

_What King knowingly drinks from the poisoned cup, and likes it?_

"Cas," Crowley clarified raggedly. "He's all that you have left. He can't have much time... a few days, give or take. A week if he's lucky, which we both know our dear Cas rarely is."

"Cas isn't going to die," Sam informed him in a matter-of-fact tone.

"He will. And then you'll have a demon for a brother, and a corpse for your bestest friend." Crowley tilted his head back, gazed fixed on Sam. "I might not be the only one putting a gun in their mouth, hmm? Wouldn't that be just the perfect poetic justice? Neither can live while the other survives, you know, that bit?"

Sam's fist clenched. Crowley hoped the hunter would hit him again.

_You believe you deserve to be punished._

Oh, if anyone on the planet deserved a few more cuts and bruises, it was him. Sam had the potential to be an even better wind-up toy than Kevin, when pressed.

Kevin. He missed Kevin, sometimes.

Sam didn't hit him, more's the pity. Instead, the hunter stabbed the syringe into Crowley's neck, marking him for the fifth time. Sam shoved the needle deep, too deep, and Crowley let out an exclamation of pain, rather than annoyance, as he had after the previous shots.

There was a difference between feeling pain as a demon and feeling pain as a human. A world of difference. Unless wounded by a celestial or infernal weapon, pain was like... like the feeling of watching someone get disemboweled on TV. A phantom pain, less than even a second hand sensation. More of a psychosomatic itch than anything, really.

As human blood started to cancel out the demon blood in his system, pain became tangible, real. And he wanted it, if only for a distraction from the guilt, the terror... the goddamn _humanity._

He wanted, needed an escape. If only a brief one.

Sam ripped the needled out. A drop of blood clung to its tip. Crowley stared at it as he felt the fifth dose rush through him. He swallowed, gritting his teeth so hard they ached, trying to keep himself under control, trying to fight the _heat-fear-please-stop_-_help _feeling.

A tear trailed down his cheek.

He was losing the battle, and he knew it.

Percentages, ratios, balanced and unbalanced scales... that was the name of the game, now. More human, or more demon? Which was he?

"I won't kill myself," Sam said, expression inscrutable. "I mean, I'll have the fact that you're finally dead to keep my going. I should be fine." He gave Crowley a tight, cruel smile.

Suddenly, he understood what was so special about Sam. Why every demon in the old hierarchy wanted a piece of him. Sam was good. Not Heaven's golden boy, like Dean, but still good, bred and raised to be brave, to be a hero, or at least what the Winchesters defined as one. If there was one thing, just one thing Crowley knew, it was that nothing made a stronger evil than something that started out good.

Take something good and right and corrupt it, and you've got a more powerful evil than you can imagine. Snap out the light, and what lies in the dark can be something truly terrifying.

_Did losing Dean turn the light off, Sam?_

But Crowley didn't say that. Instead, he said, "You're going to have nothing."

Sam didn't flinch.

"Just like you," the hunter countered.

Then, something flashed in Sam's eyes, but Crowley was too busy drowning in the human blood pumping through him to properly identify the emotion.

"How does it feel, Crowley?" Sam continued quietly, surprisingly calm. "Knowing that no one will miss you when you're gone?"

Sam left without another word.

* * *

Ronnie decided that it would be a hell of a lot easier to drive if she didn't have to keep pulling over to the side of the road while she succumbed to her visions. The intensity of them shook her to her core. Feeling Crowley's pain, his desperation, his fear and misery... she was thoroughly entrenched in his psyche, and at the moment, that was an absolutely terrifying place to be.

Ronnie wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, taking a deep breath and collecting herself. Juliet whimpered behind her. The hellhound pushed her nose into Ronnie's shoulder, as if urging her to get moving again.

"I know. I know," she muttered. "I'm driving as fast as I can. If you've got a problem with the visions, you're going to have to take it up with God."

Juliet growled at that.

"That's not a fight I think you're going to win, girl."

Ronnie put the Bentley back in drive, and she pushed the gas pedal almost to the floor. She couldn't afford to waste anymore time.

* * *

Dean was pissed.

Really fucking pissed.

"Um, I don't want to put a damper on your fun here, Winchester, but killing the help isn't going to make Ronnie come back," Laharl advised from a safe distance as Dean ripped apart Forfax's abdomen.

"He was supposed to watch her," Dean growled. "Did a pretty shit job of it, didn't he?" He drove the First Blade further up, more or less rending the demon in half. Blood poured out of Forfax's mouth. With a gasp and a crackle of orange lightning under his skin, he ceased to exist.

Dean let Forfax's corpse fall to the ground. His lip curled in disdain. The demon's lifeblood was going to ruin that import Persian Crowley liked so much, but if the King had a problem with it, he could bite him.

And Dean would bite back.

"Well, to be fair, none of us really saw the hellhound thing coming," Laharl commented nonchalantly.

Dean looked at his left arm, which was basically in shreds, after his debacle with Juliet. His skin hung in bloody, torn strips, and his radius was snapped in half, with teeth indents deep in the bone. That hound of Crowley's had been a lot more than he bargained for. He was finding himself grateful for his newfound incredible pain tolerance.

"What was up with that bitch, anyway?" Dean demanded, frustrated. "She's Crowley's dog! Why would she help _Crowley's prisoner_ escape?"

Laharl held up the hand that wasn't currently clutching the bleeding stab wound in his thigh. "Search me, man. It doesn't make any sense to me, either."

Dean sighed irritably as his left arm began to swiftly knit itself back together. "Now I have to call him, tell him what happened, and listen to him whine at me for letting her get away. Great."

Dean pulled out his cell, hitting Crowley's speed dial number.

* * *

_"You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life..."_

Abba's "Dancing Queen" blasted from nearby, jarring Crowley out of an introverted haze. His eyes flew around, trying to identify the source of the sound... _there_. In the cabinet where Sam was keeping the blood (_don't think about the blood!_), his iPhone rested on the topmost shelf.

"Squirrel," he muttered. "You really _do_ care."

The shelves were pushed apart a moment later. Gadreel stood in the gap, looking perplexed by the sudden noise. Ah. So he'd still been guarding the door outside Room 7B, just as Moose ordered. Gadreel narrowed his eyes at Crowley.

"What is that sound?" he demanded.

"Not much of a music aficionado, are we?" Crowley drawled, putting everything he had into not looking like a bedraggled, botched cross-species mess. "It's my phone. Apparently Moose didn't want me playing Candy Crush while I wait for my execution."

That seemed to just confuse Gadreel further. Oh, he remembered when Cas had been so oblivious. Before the reaper tryst, the convenience stores, the pimp mobile. The naive angels were always more fun to play with.

Gadreel, bless his heart, wandered over to Crowley's still-singing cell.

Crowley's lips twitched, almost smirking. He may get out of his current disaster, yet. Dean had called... so he must have been concerned, at least on some level. Hopefully enough to send some kind of rescue team to retrieve him. Or better yet, come himself.

_Dean Winchester. My Knight of Hell in shining armor._

The Garden's former guardian picked up the phone and put it to his ear. "Hello? Who is this?" A moment later, with wide eyes, he uttered, "Dean?"

* * *

"Hello? Who is this?"

Dean stared at his phone uncomprehendingly. Once he had a moment to recover, he put it back to his ear.

"And just what the hell are you doing with Crowley's phone?" Dean asked shortly.

"Dean?" Gadreel seemed shocked to hear his voice.

"The one and only."

"I–" Gadreel started, but then cut himself off. "I am unsure of what to say to you, Dean."

"Answering my question would be a good start."

"Crowley is–"

"MAYDAY! SITUATION CRITICAL! CODE RED! SOS! _SQUIRREL GET YOUR ASS TO THE BUNKER AND GET ME OUT OF HERE FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING_–"

Dean winced at the volume, pulling back from the phone as Crowley screamed his damn head off. The other demon broke off abruptly with a pained grunt. Gadreel must have hit him.

"Crowley is otherwise occupied," the angel said.

"Sounds like it," Dean remarked. He leaned against Crowley's desk, almost interested now. Just what had Crowley gotten himself into? "So, what's the game? Shake down Crowley for info? Ransom him off to me, or something?"

Gadreel was silent for a few seconds. "I believe Sam intends to kill the demon."

"So, revenge," Dean surmised. "That's boring."

There was a fumbling on the other end. The phone switching hands, most likely.

"Dean?"

Dean's grip on the phone tightened. It was the first time he'd heard his little brother's voice in over a month.

He said nothing.

"Dean..." He heard Sam drag in a harsh breath, racked with emotion. He could picture Sam's face perfectly in his mind: eyes darting around wildly, lips half-pursed in a grimace, adam's apple bobbing in a painful, difficult swallow, brows drawn together to form one furrowed, troubled line.

"I– I don't know where your head is at right now," Sam pressed on shakily. "But... but it doesn't matter, okay? Not to me. Not to Cas. You're still family. Nothing changes that. _Nothing_." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "I need you to come home. Please. I... I can't do this without you."

**you can**

_But–_

**you don't need him**

Dean ended the call.

* * *

Sam stared at Crowley's phone. CALL ENDED: 2:12 flashed on the screen. Gadreel hovered by his side, watching him with concerned eyes. He could feel Crowley's attention on him as well.

He wanted to throw the phone against the wall. But he couldn't, because he'd finally found it... the way to find his brother. He could trace the GPS in Dean's phone... he could find out where he was, he could go to him... he could...

He could bring him home.

Or at least try.

He took a steadying breath. "Gadreel," he instructed quietly. "Keep an eye on him. In ten minutes, I want you to give him his next injection. Okay?"

Gadreel nodded. "Alright." His lips drew into a thin line. "Sam... are you going to pursue your brother?"

Sam just looked at him. "Do you really expect any differently?"

"No, I suppose not."

Sam made for the door. He halted when he heard Crowley's voice behind him.

"Don't bother, Moose." Sam glanced at the demon over his shoulder. Crowley's entire posture was sagging. His chained hands hung limp between his legs. His eyes were bloodshot and glossed over with unshed tears. Just like last time. Crowley was a mirror image of that night in the church.

"Dean will come to you, I think," he continued raggedly. "You should be happy... your brother's going to be the last thing you ever see."

* * *

Gadreel wasn't as fun to taunt as Sam, if only because the angel didn't seem to have the same deepset anger issues that made up ninety percent of Moose's personality. Getting a rise out of the Garden's ex-guardian was significantly harder, and in his current impaired state, Crowley eventually gave up the steady stream of verbal abuse in favor of surly silence.

Gadreel quietly prepared syringe number six when the time came.

"I would not get your hopes up," the angel eventually commented. Crowley flicked his eyes to Gadreel's back. His vision was getting blurry around the edges, now. The world seemed to be tilting partially to the side, and what little color there was in the dungeon seemed oversaturated.

"What are you on about?" Crowley asked, and his voice didn't have any strength to it anymore.

"Dean. I do not believe he will come for you. He did not seem very concerned for your fate when we spoke."

"Don't pretend to understand our love," Crowley retorted. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Dean would come. He would _have_ to come.

"Demons cannot feel love, from my understanding."

Ha. Ha. Ha. Wasn't that just the winning question, though? _Could _demons feel love?

_"I DESERVE TO BE LOVED! I... I just wanted to be loved..."_

Well, demons could at least want love. Whether they could feel it or not, well, that was another matter entirely.

"Hurry up with that, would you?" Crowley asked irritably, not liking where their conversation was going. "Some of us have places to be."

Gadreel offered no response as he approached Crowley. The angel watched him intently.

"Want a selfie before you take me out?" Crowley snarked. "Rude to stare, you know."

"Apologies," Gadreel said. "I was merely..." He drifted off for a moment, seeing unsure of how to phrase his next words. "You have turned out to be more than I originally thought," he said at length. "I see in you, perhaps not bravery, but the potential for bravery."

Crowley glared at him with all the malice he had left in him. "Oh? And what happened to, '_for all your chatter, you will always be a coward'?" _Crowley asked, doing what he thought was an impressive imitation of Gadreel's voice.

The angel's lips delved into a deeper frown than their usual resting position. "I called you a coward," he conceded. "But you fought me. A demon, fighting an angel, unarmed... for Sam's benefit, seemingly."

"Are you trying to compliment me, Gadreel?"

"No. I am merely stating that perhaps you are capable of being more than a coward."

"Don't count on it, mate," Crowley responded flippantly. What did bravery matter, now? All standing up for Sam had gotten him was a one way ticket to a human death, and then back to Hell. Back to the rack.

That was the end of whatever Gadreel was trying to get across, evidently. The angel injected the next syringe into his neck and pushed the sixth dose of human blood into him.

"Gahh– _bloody hell_," Crowley gasped, whole body tightening as the new blood rushed to join all that had been injected before it. There had to be more human blood in him than demon, by now. His heart beat _thump-thump-thumped _in his ears, and he hated how necessary it suddenly felt. Everything inside him felt necessary, felt... _attached._

His smoke was dwindling, shrinking, a snail that had been salted. He could feel it... he was being trapped in his vessel. No exit. No way out.

_Not trapped. He __**is **__you, now. Or he will be soon. _

Fear gripped him. He sucked in oxygen that he was going to actually _need_ soon, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that a chip on the left armrest gouged open his ring finger and drew blood. _Blood._ That's what it always came down to, wasn't it?

Gadreel turned to leave, probably to guard him from a greater distance. Before the angel could reach Room 7B, Crowley shouted after him, "Wait!"

Mercifully, Gadreel stopped. "Demon, whatever you have to say–"

"Help me," Crowley interrupted him. "Help me, help us, help ourselves. Get me? These two are a dead end, Moose and Castiel. Quite literally in Cas's case, and Sam doesn't give half a damn about you. You're a means to an end to him, nothing more. I told you, they'll use you up, and when Cas isn't around to protect you anymore, you'll be truly bollocksed, my friend. There'll be a noose around your neck faster than you can say 'snake in the garden'. You've got one chance, one, and that's _me_."

It was his last gambit. If Dean wouldn't come for him, then the hulking idiot who let Lucifer ruin the universe was his next best shot.

"Do you truly think I will fall for your tricks?" Gadreel asked tersely.

_"It's not a trick,"_ Crowley hissed. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm the only one in this bloody hole in the ground that _will_ tell you the truth. I'm not Metatron, I'm not Team Ill Will, I'm the King of Hell, but I keep. My. Deals. I won't lie to you." He lifted his hands, chains clinking together. "Let me go. There's no place for you in Heaven, or here with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dipshit. But Hell? There's room for you there. I'll repay the favor in spades."

"I would never help someone like you."

"You–" Crowley broke off, calming himself, trying to make his aggravation less obvious. "You worked with Metatron, for sin's sake. He's the dodgiest bloke in Creation, and that's coming from the King of dodgy blokes! You killed for him, but you won't help me? Even if it means saving your own skin? I can do things for you, Gadreel. Give you a new life. With what you've done, you'll always be chasing redemption, and you'll never get it. With me, with Hell? You can be who you are. You can be _accepted_."

He saw something waver in the angel's eyes.

_Yes, yes!_

"I am accepted here."

Crowley let out a vicious laugh. "As if you believe that!"

"Wouldn't you say it's better to seek forgiveness from above, then to hide somewhere that my sins have no bearing?" Gadreel challenged.

_My God, he's a thick one._ "You do realize who you're talking to, yeah?" Crowley rolled his eyes. "You can't find forgiveness. Forgiveness? It's... it's a joke. A sick, cosmic joke, that makes you think if you feel sorry enough, it will change what you are." He scoffed. "Hate to break it to you darling, but we are what we are, and in the end, we're all monsters... some are just a mite more literal."

"Forgiveness is real. Castiel has–"

"He hasn't, and if you think he has, you truly are as stupid as you look," Crowley cut across him. "It's pointless trying to earn forgiveness from people who don't know how to give it."

Gadreel went quiet, just watching Crowley.

"What? Did I hit a nerve? Look, the vessel's not _that_ bad–" Crowley tried to ammend.

"I pity you."

Crowley blinked, taken aback. "What did you just say?"

"I pity you," Gadreel repeated. "You'll die believing that no one can become better... that no one is capable of change."

"People _don't_ change." Not for the better, anyway. It wasn't possible.

_I tried. _

"I believe you're wrong," the angel said simply. "I know I can change. I already have begun to do so. There is always hope... at least for those willing to chase it."

Gadreel turned again, walking away from him.

"Goodbye, Crowley."


	22. The Edge of What We Are

**Chapter 22 - The Edge of What We Are**

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Sam had successfully tracked Dean's phone.

From that point forward, every move his brother made, Sam would know about, so long as Dean didn't ditch his phone. According to the blip on the map, he was in Nevada at the moment. Maybe at Crowley's compound, or maybe just on an errand for the King.

So, he'd done it. He had found Dean.

_Now what?_

Sam knocked on Cas's door. The angel responded with a haggard, wet cough that Sam was pretty sure meant he could come in. Sam pushed the door open, poking his head through the gap.

Cas was lying on the bed, curled into himself, halfway to the fetal position. The blankets were gathered tight around him, forming a wrinkled mound in the center of the bed. He was shivering violently, eyes pinched shut, his face a mask of agony.

Sam, unable to stop himself, averted his eyes. He wished that he could take away Cas's pain, could take the burden of his stolen Grace onto himself. He wished he could do for Cas what Cas had done for him years ago. Cas had sucked the Cage out of him, let it break open in his own mind. Sam would've died, if not for Cas.

_He saved you, but you can't save him._

The familiar burn of guilt flowed like acid in his chest, eating through his lungs and stealing both his words and breath. He just stared at his own knuckles, bone white against the door threshold. He gripped it too tightly, and his fingers ached. He hated being useless.

"S-Sam?" Cas managed, all gravel-scratch and pain.

After a brief struggle to find his voice, Sam said, "I found him."

The angel's eyelids parted, revealing feverish blue. He lifted his head ever-so-slightly. "Dean?"

Sam nodded wordlessly, his throat tight, like sandpaper against sandpaper.

Cas's head fell, and he let out a long, shaky breath. "What are we going to do?"

"We bring him home. _I_ bring him home," he answered firmly. What other option was there?

"You can't do this alone," Cas murmured, seeming close to drifting out of consciousness.

"This is something I need to do alone. I'd like to have you wih me, Cas, but right now, that's not really an option."

"I can–"

"Cas."

The angel winced, turning his face further into his pillow. "He's too strong."

"I won't fight him."

"I d-doubt–" Cas broke off, a cough cutting through his words. When he recovered, he said, "I doubt you'll have much choice."

"I won't. Fight. Him," Sam repeated adamantly, crossing his arms. "I just have to remind Dean that he's... that he's _Dean_."

Cas didn't respond.

"You think I'm being naive," Sam guessed.

"No. I just think that you love your brother very much," was the angel's hoarse response. "When will you go?"

"As soon as the cure is finished."

A few beats of silence. The air was too damn heavy in there, cloying and thick.

"What will you say?" Cas broached tentatively.

Sam answered honestly: "I have no idea."

Cas made a sound that was half-cough, half-snort. Sam realized after a moment that he was trying to laugh.

"I suppose that's the Winchester Way, isn't it?"

Sam smiled sadly. "Yeah... yeah, I guess it is." He shifted, tapping his fingers on his elbow... he felt compelled to ask Cas if there was anything that he could do to help, even though he knew it was a pointless question.

"There's nothing you can do for me, Sam," Cas said quietly, as if reading his mind. "It's a matter of... of waiting for the inevitable end, now."

"Nothing is inevitable."

"I wish I could see it that way," the angel replied somberly.

Sam thumped his fist helplessly on the doorframe, shaking his head. "Cas..."

"Just do one thing for me."

Sam blinked in subdued surprise. "Name it."

Cas swallowed, throat convulsing, fighting against the urge to retch. "Tell Dean... tell him I'm sorry."

Sam pursed his lips, his first instinct being to argue with Cas, tell him that he had nothing to be sorry for, but he knew the words would mean nothing to the angel.

"I'll tell him," Sam promised.

* * *

"Well..." Laharl watched Dean with clear apprehension. The demon must have heard Sam's voice over the phone. "Now would, uh... probably be a good time to get the troops together. You know, go save Crowley before he gets stabbed in the neck." The demon made the appropriate gestures to indicate that they should get going.

Dean was still staring down at his phone. "Crowley's in the bunker."

Laharl shrugged. "Just get your brother to let you in. You know he will. Get him to open up the door, and then we can storm the place, guns blazing."

"Demons can't enter uninvited," Dean muttered dismissively. "Part of the warding."

"You could still get in... and honestly, you'd be enough, what with the–" Laharl waved vaguely at Dean's intact arm that held the First Blade. "You know."

**let him come to you****,** the Voice whispered, puzzling Dean.

"If I go to the bunker, I'm not getting back out," Dean said, turning to Laharl. "Sam'll make sure of that."

Laharl didn't seem happy to hear that. "So, what? You're just gonna do _nothing_?"

Dean glared at him. "You got a problem with that?"

Laharl gulped, attention still on the First Blade, demeanor abruptly changing. "Nope. No problem here. You're the boss, boss."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Dean cracked his neck. "Crowley got himself into this mess... he can get himself out. It ain't my fucking responsibility."

"But what if he doesn't?"

Dean sheathed the Blade. "There's always another demon waiting in line to be King."

He should care. Crowley saved him. Gave him the Mark, the Blade.

Or at least that's what Crowley would remind him of if he was here with him, now.

But, he wasn't... and Dean didn't care one way or another if Crowley bit the bullet.

He turned off his phone. "Hey, where's that scrawny demon that handles all of Crowley's tech and intelligence?"

"Kayce?" Laharl clarified.

"Yeah."

"Get him."

Laharl departed, and soon enough, he returned with Kayce in tow. "How can I help you, Mr. Winchester?" Kayce asked, cool professionalism in his tone.

He tossed the demon his phone. "Destroy that thing and get me a new one. I don't want my brother to be able to find me."

Kayce's hand clenched around the phone. "You... may want to reconsider that."

Dean teleported so he was in front of Kayce in the span of one of his needless heartbeats. He grabbed the demon by the knot of his pencil tie and lifted him a clear foot off of the floor. Kayce looked appropriately terrified.

What could he say? He wasn't in the mood for any arguments. Not today.

"Oh?" Dean asked with an air of false innocence. "And why's that?"

"B-because," Kayce stammered. "I– I've been researching the First Blade... and the Mark. I found something interesting. Valuable, maybe. To you."

"Well, don't keep me waiting."

"The Blade... and the Mark, by extension, they aren't at full power. Not yet. There's something you have to do before you can grow stronger."

Stronger? He was already the strongest demon there was. "And?"

"You have to do what Cain did."

Realization dawned on Dean. He set Kayce back on his feet. "I've gotta kill Sam, huh." It wasn't a question.

Kayce straightened his rumpled suit. "Yes. If you're willing." Kayce held up Dean's phone. "If what I've heard of you Winchesters is true... sooner or later, he's bound to come after you."

**let him come to you****, **the Voice repeated.

Now he understood.

Kayce's words rang in his ears: _"If you're willing."_

Was he?

Kayce offered him the phone back, slowly extending his arm.

Dean took it.

* * *

The hour following his sixth injection may have been the worst. His emotions were a whirlwind that changed so abruptly and drastically that one moment he would be seething with anger and fantasizing about hanging Moose by his own intestines, and then suddenly he'd be sobbing about something – nothing – _everything_.

And there was _nothing he could do to stop it._

_Dean will come. Dean. Will. Come._

He knew that he wouldn't, but that wasn't something he would admit to himself. Because that meant he didn't mean enough to anybody to be worth saving.

He didn't know, however, when he got it in his head to talk to _her_, of all people.

"Just a little over an hour now," he whispered to the empty room, not giving a damn if Gadreel could hear him or not from outside in the hallway. "You're watching me. Or you've already watched me, rather. That prophet time distortion... tricky thing, isn't it?"

What would she think of him, he wondered? Would she see a sick puppy, desperate to be healed... or would she think him cowardly, weak?

"Bet you're just sitting there... sitting there thinking, 'well, I told you so, Crowley'," he continued roughly. "Should've chosen a side, I s'pose. Like you said. I thought I could walk the line. One foot in humanity, in my... little pick-me ups. The other in Hell. Where I'm intended to be. Doing what demons do. Six of one, half dozen of another."

The silence of the dungeon seemed oppressive. _Drip-drip-drip _went the pipe.

"It didn't work though, did it? I've tried everything to get the things that humans have. But I can't have them. That's not the way the world works. You only get one chance, and I thought... before, I thought being a demon was my second chance. But it wasn't. Even once I was out of Hell... it's still _Hell_, right? And you can never go back to what you were. Not really. Not even if you try, not even if you..." He broke off, words dying before they could even leave his mouth.

"Funny, isn't it, that I'm thinking of you? One inconsequential little speck of a human. I never was like this before, you know. Keep reading those books. You'll see. I used to– to have it _together_. Unflappable. Unfeeling. Perfect."

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn't know why the hell he was wishing so much that the bloody ginger was there with him. Maybe she'd give him some speech on redemption or providence that would annoy him to death before Sam could finish the job.

"You thought God had a plan for me," he whispered. "At least you were wrong about something."

The shelves spread apart. Sam stood there, looking grave, but there was something about the draw of his shoulders that seemed different. The moose had gone and gotten himself a lead on Dean, and now he was all puffed up with heroic determination, off to go save the day and pull his brother back out of the cold and bring him home, sit him by the fire.

Pathetic.

_At least Dean has someone to save him._

"Who were you talking to?" Sam asked.

"My imaginary friend," Crowley said, so tired he could barely put any feeling into the snark. "Can we get on with this?"

"You're in a hurry now?"

"The anticipation is literally killing me," Crowley mumbled. "I'm sure you've already got your song and dance prepared for my death scene."

Sam didn't say anything, just went about preparing the lucky seventh syringe.

"This is funny, isn't it?"

"What?" the Winchester asked shortly.

"You and me."

"There is no _you and me_, Crowley."

"It's funny because you don't even realize how alike we are."

He could practically feel Sam's temper flare at that. "You and I are _nothing_ alike."

"Aren't we, though? We were both born and bred to destroy the world. Handpicked by Hell to make it all come crashing down. I was supposed to be Lilith's loyal dog... you were supposed to be Azazel's. Until Lucifer was ready to crawl inside you, that is."

Crowley let out a twittering laugh that sounded half-mad, even to him.

"You're a human with demon blood running through him, I'm a demon with human blood running through him. We're both neither, less than either. _Can't you see it?"_

"I chose humanity," Sam responded simply. "You didn't."

Crowley, eyes locked with Sam's, pulled back his sleeve. He held up his right arm, which was riddled with needle holes around both the crook and wrist. "Didn't I?"

Sam said nothing. Crowley let his arm drop. "Not to mention," Crowley continued, "You cut me off right before the curtain call, last spring."

"Are you saying you wish that I would've turned you human, that night at the church?"

He didn't know.

"Seems better than the alternative. Of course, you were going to kill me then, too. Same result either way: I die."

Sam had the syringe. He went to Crowley's side.

"No second chances. That's the Winchester method, right? Except when it comes to you and Squirrel, and Castiel. Then you can send the whole world to Hell, so long as you feel guilty about it afterwards and day-drink enough."

Sam glared at him. "You brought this on yourself, Crowley. You took my brother from me."

"I didn't... I didn't want it to be like this," Crowley muttered, eyes turning down to his feet.

"What did you expect it to be like?"

"I thought he'd be the same," he admitted, and he didn't know why he was suddenly being honest, but the verbal spew was coming, and it wasn't about to be stopped. "I just wanted... someone... _anyone_, to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Understand what it's like!" Crowley burst out. "You played at being a demon but you don't _know_, you can't even begin to imagine what it feels like... to be like this for centuries... to be... _wrong_. To feel nothing but ice, and emptiness, and hunger. It's a void, and you can't fill it. No matter what you do, how many people you kill, how much power you have, it doesn't make _any difference_." A tear escaped his eye, and he hated himself a little more. "I'm dead," he whispered. "I've been dead for hundreds of years... and... I don't remember what it feels like to be alive. To _feel _at all."

"You're the one who got yourself damned to Hell. _You_ sold your soul. You made your choices, don't you dare play the victim now. You paved your own way to Hell."

Crowley shook his head. "Hell wasn't _Hell_ for me. No, not once I was off the rack. In Hell... look past all the torture, and the agony... it seemed like my saving grace. I went from bottom-feeding, worthless, gutter garbage, to... to something greater. Once I died, I found purpose. I was strong. I was..." He sucked in a harsh breath. "I was _necessary_. No one could walk away from me, dismiss me, tell me I was nothing. I crawled up a pile of corpses and I took the throne... and that was enough for me. It was enough. Until _you_. Until your blood. I think I knew... the second it was in my veins..." He bent his head, a sob racking him, making his chest ache. "It was over."

Sam just watched him silently, brow furrowed in the slightest hint of confusion.

"It was like fire... not hellfire... something else, something stronger... I was feeling again. I tasted humanity, and I hated every second of it, but locked in this– this fucking _pit_ for months, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Because... that hole inside me... before you cured me, for that brief moment... it felt filled. Filled with a million things, pain and regret, love and hate, and– and– I _couldn't_... I can't understand it. It's all too much, but now I can't stop. I'm addicted to it, because I can't go back to being empty. It..." Words failed him for a few moments, until he quietly added, "It terrifies me. Feeling _nothing_ terrifies me, being human terrifies me, _being nothing_ terrifies me... but being a demon terrifies me, too. I'm afraid. I've never been so afraid."

Sam stared down at him, syringe in hand, saying nothing. Some of the malice seemed to have finally faded from his expression, and he watched Crowley, not seeming to know what to do with him in light of his partially hysteric monologue.

"I wanted to be saved... I wanted to be forgiven... but it's too late. It's been too late for a long, long time." He stared at the syringe in Sam's hand, then the pistol tucked at his belt. "I suppose there's only one way out."

"It'll be quick," Sam told him at length. "And painless." Had he softened the moose, ever-so-slightly? Small miracles. "And... would you rather feel fear, or nothing at all?"

The tip touched his neck. He closed his eyes.

_End of the line._

"I don't know," he said, the most honest words he'd ever spoken.

Sam administered the seventh dose.

* * *

She wasn't going to make it in time.

There wasn't any hope to begin with that she would, truthfully. She had nine, maybe ten hours tops to reach Crowley, depending on how delayed her visions were. The drive from Crowley's compound in Nevada to Lebanon was bound to take pushing fifteen hours. Even with her foot glued to the pedal, there was no feasible chance.

And yet, she kept driving.

More visions flashed in her mind throughout the day. Dean calling Crowley, getting Gadreel, then getting Sam. Kayce telling Dean the truth about the final key to unlocking the full power of the First Blade. Crowley trying to talk Gadreel into releasing him, Sam tracking Dean down...

Crowley talking... talking to... _her?_

_"Bet you're just sitting there... sitting there thinking, 'well, I told you so, Crowley'. Should've chosen a side, I s'pose. Like you said. I thought I could walk the line. One foot in humanity, in my... little pick-me ups. The other in Hell. Where I'm intended to be. Doing what demons do. Six of one, half dozen of another."_

The Bentley came screeching to a halt in the middle of the rural highway.

She listened. She watched. She wished she could talk to him, could scream that it wasn't too late for him, not yet.

_"Funny, isn't it, that I'm thinking of you?"_

Juliet barked, snapping her out of her vision. Ronnie glanced in the rearview mirror. A truck was laying on the horn behind her. She promptly pulled over to the side, letting the car pass. She slammed her hands on the Bentley's steering wheel in frustration.

"We're not gonna make it, girl," she sighed, leaning her head against her hands. "Damn it."

Juliet looked more sad than a demonic helldog had any right to look.

Ronnie took a deep breath. Twisted the ring Crowley had given her. Tried to think.

That was when she was pulled into another vision.

* * *

It was an hour of harsh truths for the King of Hell.

_I have done horrible things._

_I will never be forgiven._

_I am going to die._

Crowley spent the last hour of his life slipping in and out of consciousness, mind a blur of regrets and fear, fear of what was to come, fear of what was still inside of him... but he wasn't afraid of the humanity anymore, no. He was more human than demon, now. He was terrified of what little of the demon in him remained.

_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing..._

It was only a matter of time, now.

Crowley's eyes drifted closed. He'd never felt so tired.

"You're actually going to let him do this?"

His eyes snapped open as fast as they'd shut. He wasn't alone in the dungeon.

In front of him, arms crossed, suit immaculate, hair neat and face blood free and clean shaven... was himself.

"Ah. Hallucinations," he mumbled to himself. "Brilliant. Should've seen that coming."

"You're tripping on humanity. Worse than brown acid, mate. You're lucky I'm all you're seeing," Other Crowley informed him. "Back to my original question–"

"I don't have a choice," Crowley argued weakly.

"There's always a choice," his other self snapped. "That's the whole bloody point, isn't it? Free will, bla bla bla?"

"That was the point?" he asked with feigned interest. "I thought we just wanted to take over Hell."

"Not _we_," he corrected. "Not anymore. It's you, and it's me, now. You're dancing on the edge of being one of _them_–" He gestured towards the general vicinity of where Sam was. "Me? I'm top of my game. I'm a damn _demon_, like I'm supposed to be."

Crowley sighed, half-wishing the end would hurry up and come so he wouldn't have to put up with this.

"What happened to you?" his other self pressed.

"Humanity happened to me," Crowley growled.

"That's no excuse. You let it get the best of you. You let it destroy you. You're _weak_. Me? I'm strong. The strongest!"

"What do you want, a good noodle star?"

"You RUINED us!" Other Crowley roared, grabbing him by the front of his suit and shaking him. "I was the _King_. I was the strongest demon on the planet. People said my name and they said it with_ fear_. No one dared stand against me. I had my throne, I had my power, I was going to stick a doorstop in the Gates of Hell and rule this _entire goddamn planet_. And if you hadn't gone and gotten yourself shot up with Moose blood, I would have done it. I would have ripped apart everyone the Winchesters had ever saved, then killed the two of them and penned their souls in a nice little corner in Hell where I could roast them at my leisure. You took that away from me. You took it _all_ away."

His other self put a hand to his throat, squeezing just enough so Crowley's air was constricted. He gasped, and he had to give his imagination credit for just how vivid his hallucination-self was.

"And now? You let your kingdom slip through your fingers, you get locked in here for months on end. You become a junkie and decide that Dean Winchester is going to be your new BFF. You're a joke. _I_ was the apex predator, I was _forever. _You're a failed science experiment, and now thanks to you, we're both going to die in this hole." Other Crowley's eyes flashed crimson. "And you'll die just like you were born: worthless. I was the only thing that made you valuable. Without me, you're _nothing_."

He wasn't going to argue, because he knew his other self – the demon inside of him – was right.

"It's the end of the line, _Fergus_," the demon spat.

"Crowley!"

Crowley's eyes snapped open, and the demon was gone, replaced by Sam. Sam, who was holding the final dose.

Crowley was struggling for breath, still trying to shake off the phantom sensation of a hand squeezing his windpipe.

Sam watched him curiously. "Were you... dreaming?"

Crowley shrugged, feeling weak, sick, and superheated. Burnt out would probably be the best way to describe it. Too much of a good thing. Or a bad thing. Or the worst thing.

"I guess it doesn't matter, now." Sam took a few steps forward. "This is it."

Crowley remained silent.

Sam watched him, jaw tensed, twitching. He was thinking. He looked like Dean when he was thinking.

_Dean never came._

He hated that it hurt.

_Everything hurts._

"Just make it stop," he pleaded quietly.

Sam nodded. He stabbed the syringe into Crowley's neck and pushed.

Lights danced in Crowley's eyes. His head fell backward when the syringe was removed. All coherent thought was gone, replaced by a stream of sights and sounds, a stormy sea of moving emotion. Nothing made sense and the pain of it all had only gotten far worse.

_Dear God, _he thought to himself, seeing Sam through a sheen of tears as the Winchester cupped his palm and poured out the remainder of the blood pack into his waiting hand. _What have I done?_

"I didn't mean it..." He didn't even know what he was saying anymore.

Sam's eyes almost had sympathy in them. He held out his hand. With the other, he almost gently tipped Crowley's head back. "Drink," he ordered.

_NO! _screamed the demon inside of him. _I'M NOT DONE YET_–

Crowley did as he was told, and Sam began to chant the final exorcism, "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus hanc animam redintegra... lustratus... lustratus!_"

_Animam redintegra: fix this soul, _he translated, his last thought as something that could still be called a demon.

Searing orange light flashed. Everything inside of him screamed.

Crowley blacked out.


	23. Welcome to the Human Race

**Chapter 23 - Welcome to the Human Race**

* * *

The cure was complete. The King of Hell was human.

For the second time that day, Sam was faced with the age-old question: Now what?

_Kill him, _he told himself. _Just like you planned from the start._

Crowley's head hung low, chin touching his chest. He shook violently, letting out an occasional breathy, pained noise... he seemed nearly catatonic. Sam called his name a few times, but the former demon showed no sign of having heard him.

With a sigh, Sam made his way into the main section of Room 7B, weaving his way through the shelves upon shelves of files to where Gadreel waited for him in the threshold. He watched Sam intently, arms crossed, eyes inscrutable. Sam didn't bother to close the shelves behind him; it's not as if Crowley was much of a threat, at the moment.

"It is done, then?"

"It's done. The old king is dead," Sam said, a bitter, sardonic smile twisting his lips.

"Not dead." The angel seemed pensive. "Reborn, perhaps. But not dead."

"I guess..." Sam trailed off. "I... I don't really know what to do with him now." He glanced back at the not-demon, who still hadn't lifted his head.

"I thought your plan was to kill him upon turning him human?"

"Yeah, I mean, I was going to give him a gun and let him splatter his own brains on the wall."

"Considering the threat that Crowley poses, even as a human, that is most likely the wisest decision."

"Yeah, I know, it's just… I hate him."

Crowley shifted, his hands clenching. Was he coming back to himself?

"I hate him _so much_," Sam continued, "but... he's human, and that just screws with everything."

He'd been so sure that Crowley's death was what he wanted, that once the King was dead, he would feel vindicated. After all, wasn't it the ultimate revenge for what he did to Dean?

But during that final hour... _"I didn't mean it."_

No one was that good of an actor. Just like last time, he was forced to face the fact that Crowley was feeling something real, that he was being changed by the human blood inside of him. Sam ran a frustrated hand through his hair. No matter how much he hated Crowley, it didn't feel right to hand a human being a gun and watch as they ended their life. He was a hunter. Killing humans was the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do.

_This is his punishment, and he deserves it. Hell, death is too good for him._

With effort, he forced back his doubts.

"It is up to you, Sam," Gadreel told him.

"Yeah..." Sam straightened his shoulders, withdrawing his pistol from its holster. He couldn't afford to back out, not now. He would regret it if he didn't finish what he started. "Here goes."

He turned his back on Gadreel and returned to Crowley. The demon – no, not demon, a human now – was staring down at his hands, and still trembling. Crowley's breaths were coming hard and fast. Was he hyperventilating?

Sam stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say. He eventually removed the handcuff key from his pocket and unlocked Crowley's restraints. They fell to the concrete floor with an echoing clatter.

_A man should be free in his death._

Sam carefully offered the gun to Crowley, holding it over his hands so he would see it, as he hadn't lifted his eyes to look at Sam when he'd entered the dungeon. Sam didn't know how he was so sure, but he knew that Crowley wouldn't turn the gun on him.

After a long pause, Crowley gingerly took the pistol with his right hand. Crowley craned his head to meet Sam's gaze. Crowley's eyes were blood shot from crying, his face splotchy and red. Blood dripped down his chin from the beating Sam had issued to him earlier.

_Don't you dare feel sorry for this bastard. Remember what he did to your brother._

"Consider it mercy, Crowley," Sam told the new human. "I've got half a mind to chain you up here and let you suffer."

Crowley's eyes went back to the gun. Slowly, _slowly_, he lifted it, pointing it back at himself. The end of the barrel rested gently on his temple. He drew in a shaky breath, and then flipped off the safety. Sam backed away, averting his eyes. He didn't want to see Crowley take his own life, no matter how much he detested the son of a bitch.

He waited for almost a full minute. Still no gun shot.

"I– I can't," Crowley croaked out, voice even rougher than usual.

"Coward even as a human, huh?" Sam asked, and he knew it was a cruel thing to say, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. He turned back to Crowley. "Give it to me. I'll do it."

Crowley didn't hand the gun over. He lowered it so he held it in his lap. He pursed his lips, swallowing with effort. "…do I really deserve the easy way out?" he asked so softly that Sam almost couldn't hear him.

"Nice try, Crowley. You're not getting out of this one."

Different species, same manipulation tactics. It certainly didn't take him long to get back on the horse. Sam was suddenly sure he was making the right decision.

"If I die... I'll go straight back to Hell... and souls that go to Hell..."

_He'll become a demon again._

Sam almost wanted to smack himself for not thinking of that before. If he killed Crowley, his currently human soul would no doubt be damned to Hell once again. He had a feeling that it wouldn't take long for Crowley to turn, given his history. Soon enough, Crowley would be a demon, be back on Earth, and be his problem once more.

_This accomplished absolutely nothing._

"Damn it," Sam said, and he snatched the gun out of Crowley's hands and holstered it at his side. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you, now?"

Crowley offered no response.

"I could lock you up again," Sam thought aloud, but he knew that wouldn't work. Holding a demon captive was one thing. They didn't need food, or showers, or sleep, or clothing, or… well… anything at all, really. Humans were another matter entirely.

"But I don't have time to play prison warden for you," Sam tacked on.

Still nothing from Crowley. The once-demon was slowly flexing his hands, seemingly lost in thought.

Sam let out a heavy breath, trying to think. He couldn't kill Crowley. He couldn't keep him in the bunker, either. It didn't take much for Sam to realize that he truly only had one option, and it was the definition of a crap decision.

Sam shook his head in resigned anger, and then punched Crowley so hard in the temple that he knocked the freshly cured demon unconscious.

* * *

"Why did you not tell Castiel that we were leaving?" Gadreel asked.

"Because he would tell me that this is a terrible idea," Sam replied, eyes on the road in front of them. "But what Cas won't get is that we don't have any other _choice_." Sam grimaced. "Crowley's going to be a complete disaster. Like he said himself– humanity is our DNA, it's his burden. He's not a threat."

"I would argue that he could still be a threat, with the vast array of knowledge he holds," Gadreel pointed out.

"He's just a human. If he starts causing trouble again, we'll track him down and put a bullet between his eyes. And honestly, isn't this better payback? Dean didn't get turned and immediately die, he has to live his life as a demon _forever_. It's only fair that Crowley has to suffer as a human. If we send him to Hell, we're just gonna have to do this all over again," Sam reasoned.

"His soul is untouched, new– new and sinless. If he were to die, it is possible that he would go to Heaven instead of Hell."

"You think I'm going to kill Crowley, knowing that he's going to Heaven?" Sam asked. "Not a chance."

Sam pulled over on the side of the rural road. He'd driven about eighty miles west of the bunker. He wanted Crowley far, far away from them.

"This seems like as good a place as any," he said soberly. He climbed out of the Impala and went around to the backseat. He opened the door. Inside, Crowley was still decidedly unconscious. He lifted the demon with ease. He walked over to the side of the road and deposited him face down on the grass.

He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You're not our problem anymore, Crowley."

Without another word, Sam turned his back on Crowley's still form and returned to the Impala.

Sam and Gadreel left Crowley behind, lying among the grass and dirt.

Neither the hunter or the angel looked back.

* * *

Crowley could hear crickets.

He felt cold and damp. As he came to, he shivered. His suit was moist and sticking to him uncomfortably. He blearily blinked open his dry, scratchy eyes. He saw thin blades of grass, illuminated by weak moonlight.

His memory struggled to answer the question of how he got to where he was – wherever that happened to be. He rolled over onto his back, then sat up slowly. His muscles ached in sharp protest. He felt sore _everywhere_. He let out a quiet groan as he took in his surroundings. He appeared to be on the side of a rural road. There were no houses within seeing distance.

"What…?"

_"I've never been so scared in my life."_

He put his head in his hands as the horrific recollection of the past day crashed over him like an icy wave, drowning him in the knowledge that– _oh God please no_– he was... he was...

"Human. I'm–" He choked up, words failing him.

_This can't be happening._

He _couldn't_ be human. How could he survive, now? No powers, no invincibility… he was mortal. Just another blip of light, fleeting and inconsequential. He was the King of the Damned! The ruler of _Hell!_

_But a human can't rule Hell, now can he?_

What was the point of him now? He should've just taken the bloody gun when Moose offered it to him. Put a fucking bullet in his brain and gone back to Hell. Gone _home_.

But no, he was too much of a coward to commit suicide… because he had been to Hell… he _knew_ Hell. Not only that, but he hadn't fully got around to the TLC routine that needed doing after Abaddon put everything back to the good old fire and brimstone in his absence. The never-ending queue was back, sure, but not every soul made it to the line.

Meaning that if he died, his soul could be put back on the rack.

He couldn't go back on the rack – he _couldn't_.

The prospect terrified him down to his core. A few days ago, it wouldn't have, but now… now he was human. Now he was weak.

_You deserve to suffer as a human._

He covered his ears, even though he knew full well that the voice originated in his own head. He could feel tears building in his eyes again. His head throbbed furiously. He didn't know whether it was from crying, or from the various beatings he'd received from Moose earlier that day. At least, he assumed it was the same day. He had no way to tell how much time had passed since he'd been knocked out.

It wasn't like when he shot up with human blood. How he felt now? It wasn't a high, it wasn't a strange-yet-comforting alien warmth seeping through his veins and stoking the flames of his bastardized, fledgling soul. It was a complete overload. It was like being numb for centuries and then suddenly having feeling restored in the span of eight short hours, a pins-and-needles sensation cranked up to a thousand.

His physical reality seemed so much closer. His favorite vessel seemed like a cage. He wanted desperately to smoke out, to escape, to be a formless, emotionless cloud of bad intentions – to be _free_ – but he was trapped forever in a mortal shell. He tried to control his racing thoughts, but focus seemed impossible. The worst was the fear. Fear was not something he felt. He ruled over the worst of what crept around in the dark, of all of the monsters that hid under the bed... what did he have to fear?

But now, there was fear. Terror. So much that he couldn't isolate the cause, because it was such a foreign and overwhelming feeling. It was uncontrollable, which infuriated him, because he was _always_ in control. And why was it so hard to breathe? Why couldn't he stop himself from shaking? He felt far too hot and bone-chillingly cold at the same time. It was almost as if something was in his chest, grabbing his heart and twisting, digging.

_You have to calm down, _he ordered himself, carding his hands through the damp strands of his hair. _You can't break down. Not now. _He doubted that there was ever a good time to experience utter mental deterioration, but the point stood. He closed his eyes, trying to take the broken shards of himself and pull them together, regain his composure as best as he could. He tried to regulate his breathing.

Finally, on unsure, trembling legs, he rose from the ground. The world spun around him, and he stumbled slightly. He shivered again, tucking his hands under his arms in an attempt to gain some kind of warmth. He had to get out of the cold, or he was likely to freeze to death, in spite of the fact that it was early summer.

With no better idea of what to do, he began walking down the side of the road. He checked his pockets as he did. No phone. No weapons. Bloody Moose had even taken his wallet. _Bastard. _The only thing he had on him was one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs.

He had no idea where he was. Somewhere in Kansas, most likely, but he had no idea where. He might have to walk for hours until he found some kind of civilization. He needed a pay phone, he needed to call–

His mind stalled. Who would he call? What allies did he really have? Dean hadn't come for him, and clearly didn't care about his fate. Usually in dire situations, he would suck it up and call the Winchesters for help… quite obviously, that wasn't an option here.

He was well and truly on his own.

In the distance, he saw head lights. Though he didn't particularly fancy the idea of hitch-hiking, his legs were already smarting from walking, and he felt like he'd been hit by a truck. With a sigh, he stuck out his thumb.

Then he saw the vehicle: it was a '26 Bentley. Not just any Bentley, but _his_ Bentley. His Bentley, which was puzzlingly missing both of its side mirrors. The classic car pulled up next to him, and the driver side window rolled down.

"Thank God. I was afraid you would've already wandered away from here."

Crowley just stared.

"Veronica?" he croaked out incredulously as he met the prophet's eyes.

"Who else? Hurry up and get in, you look like you're about to fall over." She beckoned for him to get in the car.

Crowley stood there for a moment, gaping at the prophet. She was here… for _him?_ "Did Dean send you?" he managed.

Veronica gave him a bordering-on withering look. "I think we both knew the answer to that," she said. "Come on, Crowley. You're shivering."

Crowley nodded stiffly, and then made his way to the Bentley's passenger side door. He climbed in, reveling in the vehicle's warm and comfortable interior. Everything felt so much sharper, now… nothing was secondhand, felt through the skin of another. It felt so strange to have a body, a real tangible form... to_ be_ something real instead of just be _inside_ of something real.

Veronica pulled away from the side of the road, and they continued on through the night. He checked the clock on the dashboard. It was four-thirty in the morning. He looked at Veronica's profile in the darkness.

"How did you get away?" Crowley asked softly.

"I have my ways. I didn't just sing hymns and pray during basic training, you know," she told him, and he could see the glint of her smile in the moonlight. "Plus... Juliet helped."

Crowley heard a happy bark behind him. He turned in his seat immediately, excited by the prospect of seeing his ever-faithful hound–

He saw nothing.

_Humans can't see hellhounds._

Crowley felt his heart sink. It lifted only slightly when he felt Juliet's wet nose nudge his cheek. He lifted his hand, fumbling to find her head. Once he did, he scratched between her ears.

They were quiet for a few moments, then he asked, "You saw this all happen, I take it?"

He didn't particularly like the idea of Veronica seeing him at his absolute weakest towards the end of the curing ritual. He was still a wreck at present, but at least he was doing a better job hiding it than he had been earlier.

"Yeah," Veronica said tightly. "I'm having kind of a hard time having sympathy for Sam after this. I understand that he's lost without his brother, but what he did to you… I don't think he did it for any reason other than to hurt you."

"He had a rousing success, then," Crowley responded, massaging his temples. "Wish he'd just taken his damn demon poker and stabbed me. But no, he had to go and get creative. He's more of a sadist than I ever gave him credit for."

"Don't say that," Veronica replied. "Wouldn't you rather live as a human than die as a demon?"

"No," he said shortly, and maybe it wasn't wholly true, but with the way he felt right now, he just wanted it to be _over._

"Crowley–"

"I once had the spines of two dozen infant children ripped out and filleted," he cut off any forthcoming defense from the prophet. "The things I've done? They're unspeakable. I've committed every sin in that good book of yours a thousand times over. Bloody, horrible, _demonic_ things... And now? Now I feel… _guilt,_" he spat out the word like poison. "Remorse for nearly three hundred years worth of murder, torture, and blood. Think about that for a moment, then tell me again why I should want to keep breathing."

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he was grateful for the darkness. _Damn it._

Veronica was silent for so long that he thought that he may have rendered her speechless, for once. He wouldn't be surprised if she kicked him out on the side of the road. He knew exactly why the chaplain had come for him: it was her hero complex coming out in full force. She wanted to save him. But that would only last until she realized that he wasn't a person who could be saved.

"Penance," Ronnie said it so suddenly that she actually startled him.

"What?"

"You feel guilt for everything you did as a demon, right? Well, it's better for you to be alive, then, because you can try to change. To do good things to balance out the bad, and maybe… maybe someday, you can feel better about who you are and what you've done."

He looked at her for a long moment in the semi-darkness. "Do you have any idea how naïve that sounds?"

"It's not naïve, Crowley… it's hope."


	24. The Road and the Damned

**Chapter 24 - The Road and the Damned**

* * *

"What do you think will become of him?"

The question surprised Sam. He glanced at Gadreel. The angel's eyes were fixed out the window, distracted and distant.

"It's Crowley." Sam shrugged, turning his attention back to the road. "From this point on, I don't have to worry about what he's doing. Hopefully he's smart and stays the hell away from anything have to do with the supernatural, or Hell, or us. I won't let him walk away from me alive a second time."

Gadreel offered up no response.

"Why do you care?" Sam asked, not sure why the former demon was even on Gadreel's mind in the first place.

"He is... unlike other demons," Gadreel said tentatively.

"The only difference between Crowley and the other demons is that he's smarter. Beyond that, he's just like the rest of them. Evil, bloodthirsty, and cruel."

"You believe he is completely without virtue?"

"I _know _he is. Dean and I have lost too many friends to that bastard over the years."

"Then... would you say that redemption is impossible for him?"

Sam cast a suspicious glance at Gadreel. "You have to want redemption to get it."

_"Where do I begin... to even look for forgiveness...?"_

Okay. Maybe, maybe, somewhere deep down in that pathetic excuse for a soul, Crowley wanted redemption. But the road to it was long and hard, and he didn't see the ex-King of Hell ever managing it... or even desiring it enough to try.

Gadreel merely nodded. "I see."

Sam sighed heavily, thumping his hands on the steering wheel. "Don't tell me that crap he was trying to sell you earlier actually got through? What did he even say to you?"

The angel stiffened (more so than usual), but his face revealed nothing. "What Crowley said is of little importance. I was simply... curious as to what you thought might become of him, now." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I was, ah... trying to 'make conversation', as humans say."

Sam grudgingly acknowledged the nostalgia of it all; a clueless angel riding shotgun with him. Gadreel tended to remind him of vintage Castiel, when he and the Garden's former guardian were actually getting along.

"Right." Sam pulled off into a rest stop. They were about halfway home. He parked in between two oil tankers.

"Why are we stopping?"

"I'm checking on something," Sam said vaguely, snatching his laptop bag from behind the front seat. He extracted his computer, placing it on his lap and opening the lid. Once on the rest stop's wifi, he opened up his GPS tracking program, which was dutifully monitoring his brother's movements.

A quick check, and just as Sam suspected...

"He's waiting for me."

Gadreel's expression was one of worry. "Dean?"

Sam nodded. "He's at a church in Lawrence... St. Margaret's," he shared. "It's only a block away from the house we used to live in when I was a baby."

"Is he trying to send you a message?" Gadreel wondered.

"Yeah," Sam said, almost too softly to hear. "'Come get me, Sammy.'"

* * *

To say that the drive quickly became awkward would be the understatement of the year. It didn't help matters that neither of them seemed to be able to figure out where exactly they were driving to.

"Do you want to go home?" Ronnie asked. "Back to Nevada? I can drop you off. No offense, but I'm definitely not going with you if you do. I'm really over the whole prisoner thing."

She talked too much and too fast when she was nervous. Bad habit.

Crowley remained silent.

"Crowley," Ronnie sighed. "Come on. Give me some input here. I'm driving down the highway in the middle of the night in a stolen car with the King of Hell and his pet demon dog. I'm out of ideas, and so wired I can barely see straight**–**"

"I can't go back," Crowley interrupted her.

"Okay. Why?"

"Have you met my staff? Have you met _Dean?_ I could barely keep them in line as a demon... if I go back there as a human, they'll either eat me alive or throw me out on my ass."

"So... you're giving up your position, I take it?"

"No demon in their right mind serves the will of a human," he answered in a monotone, eyes firmly directed out of the window.

"Then where should I take you?"

Once again, nothing from Crowley.

"You must have safe houses all over the place. You're too smart _not_ to."

"I have houses, yes, but are they safe? No. I just recently took back Hell. Every safe house I'd established, I set up before Abaddon's coup, meaning that she, and by extension her followers, know about them and have most likely set traps for me there. No place is safe, not for me."

"You've gotta go somewhere. We can't drive forever."

"Take me to the nearest bank. I've got enough money to last a thousand**–**" He broke off, eyes pinching shut. _"Bollocks."_

"What?"

"Moose took my wallet."

"So, you've got no way to access your money."

"No."

Ronnie drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. "Well. I guess you'll just have to stay with me, then. Until you figure things out."

Finally, Crowley looked at her. His expression was so comically incredulous that she almost had to laugh. "Are you mad?"

"I thought we'd already established that."

"I'm not a puppy. You can't just adopt the King of Hell and bring him home with you."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Did you by chance miss the part where I held you against your will for weeks?"

"Rings a bell or two."

Crowley's eyes went cold as he narrowed them at her. "Ah, but that's what this is, isn't it? Capture bonding."

"Capture bonding?"

"It's a passive psychological response to captivity. You try to get close to your captor, hoping it will benefit you in some way. Newsflash, love: your chains are off. You've nothing to gain from shacking up with me."

"Do you have another place to go?"

Crowley went silent.

"Okay. Then until you have an answer to that question, you're staying with me. And yes, Juliet can come."

"You're mad!" he repeated.

"I guess you haven't caught onto this yet, but I'm not exactly the kind of person to leave someone out in the cold to fend for themselves, ex-demon or not."

"Do you've any idea what you're signing up for? I'm a three century old demon, forcibly turned human. That's not light baggage."

"I'm stronger than I look."

Crowley stared at Ronnie, and she could feel his eyes practically burning holes through her. She focused on the road, jaw set adamantly. She'd made her decision.

She saw good in him. Flickers, here and there, like shapes moving at the edge of her vision. Her mother had always scolded her as a child, told her that she was too trusting, that she assumed everyone had the best intentions, all the time. Mom had been right to get that kind of thinking out of her head early, because people were not indiscriminately good and kind and loving, no matter how much she wished that they were.

But because of that, she had learned to read people.

She'd crossed the world a couple times over, met every kind of person from every corner of the globe. From psychotic jihadists who thought nothing of bombing a school full of small children, to passionate humanitarians who had lost limbs and loved ones alike in their path to bring some semblance of peace to places that had never known it. She had seen the worst and best humanity had to offer. She knew good, and she knew evil, and the ever-dangerous line in-between that so many tended to walk.

Crowley, it seemed, had become an expert in straddling that line.

He thought himself irredeemable, but he wasn't. Not by a long shot. If some part of him wanted to get better, then maybe, just maybe...

"You're not strong enough," he said, voice cold.

"You're wrong," she said simply with a shrug of one shoulder. "And I'm going to prove it to you."

* * *

"Sam... this venture may prove more dangerous than you imagine."

Holy water. Ruby's knife. Angel blade. Spray paint for a devil's trap, though he didn't think he'd have the luxury of time to make one. And, most importantly of all, the demon handcuffs. All the aforementioned items were spread out on the table in front of Sam.

"That'd be pretty hard, considering just how bad I'm imagining this going," Sam muttered, thumb pinned between his teeth. This seemed a measly armory, considering he was taking on a Knight of Hell. The strongest living demon in the world.

He was putting a lot of money on there being enough of his brother left for him to get through to him, even for just a second– long enough to get the cuffs on him and get him home.

From there, that's when things got messy.

Because if by some miracle, he managed to capture Dean, get him home with both of them in one piece... then what?

_"There's no going back once it's begun."_

No. He couldn't think like that. Cain may have said there was no purging Dean of the Mark, no restoring his humanity, but that was only as far as Cain knew. If there was one thing, just one thing that Dean had taught him, it was that there was _always_ a way. You just had to find it.

And if not, he would just have to dig up enough of Dean in that demon so they could fight the Mark together.

"I should accompany you," Gadreel said. "Dean may be strong, but I am still an angel. Though we are not evenly matched, my presence could still make a difference."

"No. I need you to stay with Cas." _I need to do this alone. _"He could..." _Die any second._

He gritted his teeth, and saying what he actually meant suddenly seemed impossible.

"Cas needs someone here," he amended, still unwilling to say those words – the words that would finally bring Cas's likely fate into the realm of a harsh reality.

A harsh, irreversible reality.

_There's always a way._

Finding it. That was the problem. They'd run out of places to look.

"There's something wrong inside both of them," Sam said quietly. He tucked the spray paint can and demon handcuffs into the inner pockets of his coat, and then sheathed both Ruby's blade and the angel blade. The holy water flask went into his front jeans pocket. "And I don't have half a damn clue how to help either of them."

He didn't know why he said it to Gadreel, of all people, but in that moment he felt... alone. Indescribably alone. Dean was a demon. Cas was almost lost. For the first time in a long time, he was on his own. On his own with the angel who had possessed him against his will, killed with his hands, and served Metatron**–** a monster that put most demons to shame.

But he'd had that angel riding shotgun inside of him for seven months, and he hadn't sensed anything evil. Not once.

He wanted to hold onto his grudge, but seeing how Gadreel had been trying so hard to prove his new loyalties, to earn forgiveness from he and Cas and redemption for himself... it was hard to continue to despise him. Especially considering that he was practically all Sam had in the allies department, at the moment.

Maybe the friend department, too.

"Say that again," Gadreel demanded, and Sam was surprised by the forcefulness in his voice. He turned to face the angel, who was staring at him with wide, urgent eyes.

"What?"

Gadreel grasped his shoulders, shaking him. "Again, Sam!"

"There's... something wrong inside–?"

"_Inside!_ That's it! How could I have not seen it before?" Gadreel, to Sam's shock, actually grinned. He didn't think the angel could even be that expressive.

"Seen _what?"_

"I think I may have found the key to saving Castiel," Gadreel continued, still smiling.

And then, he vanished.

"Gadreel?" Sam called out, doing a three-sixty to check the entire library. Gadreel was nowhere in sight. "Damn it."

He hesitated. Should he wait for Gadreel to return before he left the bunker? But there was no telling how long it would be before he returned... and there was equally no way to gauge how long Dean would wait for Sam at St. Margaret's...

He took a deep breath, grabbed his keys and cell phone off of the table, and headed for the bunker door.

_Just hold out a little longer for me, Cas. I'll be back soon... __**we'll **__be back soon._

* * *

As the fever grew in its heat and menace, Castiel's reality began to distort, sludge dripping down the walls of his barely conscious mind as his vessel's brain rapidly came to an almost intolerable boil.

He heard... whispers. A million, teasing at the edge of his mind, surrounding him in a din of white noise that made him feel terrifyingly claustrophobic, as though the walls – and the voices – were closing in on him, and _fast_.

Was there no mercy in this? Would the end seem constant in its rapid approach, but never truly come? Was he to hang on the precipice of his own mortality indefinitely, practically begging for death?

"It's coming, buddy. That much, you don't need to worry about. Stopping the Pain Train, on the other hand, that's probably priority numero uno right about now."

His eyes snapped open, and he sucked in a harsh breath that he choked on halfway through, sputtering out another lungful of blood. That voice... another machination of his overheated brain...

He looked up, and Dean Winchester stood over his bed.

"Cas, man..." Dean shook his head, lips pursed in a worried line. "You don't look so hot. Or, uh, _too hot_, maybe."

Cas just stared at him, at Dean, at the lie, at the shadow his mind produced just to torture him into submission before he finally met his demise.

"Sorry, bad joke," the hunter apologized, so genuinely _Dean_ that Cas could almost believe he was real.

Almost.

"You're dead," Cas coughed out, vision swimming in and out of focus.

Dean frowned. "Guess that kind of depends on your perspective."

Cas closed his eyes, trying in vain to drag in an acceptable level of oxygen. "When will this end?"

"Hey." He felt a hand on his shoulder, Dean's hand, and– _not real not real it's not real! _"You're an honorary Winchester, Cas. There ain't no _end_. We're gonna get you out of this. You just gotta hold on."

"There is no we," he whispered brokenly. "You're _gone_, Dean."

"Gone for now," the hallucination murmured. "But I'll come back. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I will. Come. Back. And when I do, you better still be alive and still be here, or I'm gonna kick your ass."

Cas sighed. Perhaps he should take comfort in this, in the hallucination of his best friend.

At least he would have the illusion of not dying alone.

* * *

St. Margaret's Church. Lawrence, Kansas.

Dean remembered the place, of course, but Sam wouldn't, even though he'd been baptized there. Mom and Dad weren't religious, per se, but they both came from a time in which damn near everyone was baptized, so they'd covered their bases with Sam and Dean.

Sammy had been quiet through the whole thing, holy water and all. Hadn't cried a bit. He'd never been much of a crier, always slept soundly through the night... until after Mom died, and Azazel spiked his blood with demon juice.

Yeah. He cried a lot after that.

For almost a year after it happened, Dean slept in the crib right next to his brother, since he was still small enough to pull it off – he was terrified that if he left Sam alone, whatever took their mother would take him, too. Dad had never said a word about it. Never told him to sleep in his own bed. Just let him be.

Sam would wake up at the same time every night, screaming at the top of his fucking lungs, tears streaming down his cheeks and face bright red. Dean would hold him, try anything to get him to stop. Sometimes it would take hours to get him back to sleep, other times only a few minutes. There were bad nights and good nights.

He figured out after awhile that singing to Sam helped more than anything else. A little "Hey Jude", and the kid would be out just like that, easy as pie.

When Dean would wake from his nightmares with a scream on his lips, he'd just listen to Sammy breathing, try to time their breaths, and eventually, sleep would take him again. He never went looking for comfort after the dreams. Dad had enough of his own. He didn't need Dean crawling into bed with him, asking him to protect him from the monsters in his own mind.

For the first time in pushing forty years, he could look back on things like that and feel... nothing. Blissful, sweet emptiness.

Heh. Demon perks.

He wasn't sure why he picked this spot to kill his little brother. Book-ends, maybe? It finishes at the start? Or maybe it was just a fitting kind of irony. A church was meant for the saved or those seeking salvation, not for the damned who were perfectly happy right the hell where they were.

Dean smirked to himself, wiping the blood off of his hands.

It wouldn't be long, now.

* * *

The drive to Lawrence passed in a blur, and before he knew it, he was driving down the street his family had lived on when he was an infant. He slowed when he saw the house, unable to stop himself from fixating on it for a few moments. The house where, for six months, he'd had the only thing close to a normal life he would ever experience.

Not that he remembered any of it.

He wondered if after all these years, Jenny and her kids still lived in the house. There were two cars parked in the driveway, and the lights were down inside... it was early in the morning, too early for school or for work. Maybe Jenny had found a husband, and Sairie and Ritchie had grown up in a happy, healthy, supernatural-free household.

He hoped so. God, did he hope so. For the woman who gave him a box of the only tangible connections to the life and family he had here, he hoped for the very best.

That box was stored safely underneath his bed, now.

He hadn't been able to open it since Dean left.

He kept going, bracing himself. He wasn't there to get nostalgic. He was there to find his brother and bring him back to the home they had found all on their own, the home they had made theirs.

The church was small and unremarkable. On the sign outside, black block letters spelled out a Bible verse: _"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."_

Sam climbed out of the Impala, adrenaline and horror pulsing through him in a steady bass beat. Could he do it? Could he walk through the church's double doors and see what his brother had become?

He felt sick, in his stomach and skin, down to his very bones.

_Is this what it was like for Dean?_ he wondered morbidly. _Seeing me on demon blood, seeing me without a soul..._

He was about to meet a monster wearing his brother's face– no, he was about to meet his brother who_ was_ the monster. Whatever this thing turned out to be, at least a part of it was still Dean, however warped and twisted that part might be.

And he was going to save him.

Dean had spent his entire life looking out for Sam, protecting him... it was time to repay the favor.

With a deep breath, Sam slipped into the deserted church. Early morning sunrise shone through the stained glass windows, painting most of the sanctuary in shades of yellow, red, blue, and green. Sam spotted a lone figure on the stage, back-turned, staring up at a large golden crucifix. A body clad in black was slumped at the oak pulpit, blood splattered across the front and dripping down the sides. The church's priest, he guessed.

Sam stopped by the back row of pews, and waited.

"It's funny... Churches, I mean. People actually think that God cares what the hell they do with their lives. Think if they pray enough, wear their secret Christian underpants, everything will turn out just fine."

The shadow turned, glancing at the corpse with dull interest. With a gentle push, the priest fell to the ground with a lifeless thump.

"No one is saved, though. Not really."

Sam gulped. Two black eyes stared at him where green should've been.

"Hey, Sammy," his dead brother greeted him. "It's been awhile."


	25. Creatures of Fine Sensations

**Chapter 25 - Creatures of Fine Sensations**

* * *

_So, this is it._

Sam had rehearsed a speech in his head the entire way to Lawrence, revised it, even muttered it under his breath a few times for good measure.

Yet now, faced with the reality of Dean's new species, his throat closed up.

Dean blinked as he made for Sam, footsteps careless and calm. His eyes returned to normal.

"I– I came to take you home," Sam blurted out rather unspectacularly.

Dean stopped four feet from him. He smirked, lips curving in amusement. "That so?"

Gritting his teeth and steeling himself, Sam nodded. "We can't get rid of the Mark, and we can't make you human again. At least, not right now... but that doesn't matter."

Dean crossed his arms. "Me being evil incarnate _doesn't matter_." He snorted. "Yeah, okay."

"Cain fought the Mark for centuries," Sam reminded him, taking a step towards his brother. "If he can do it, I _know_ you can. You're the strongest person I know."

Dean was perfectly still for a moment.

Then, he laughed. Hard.

"Thanks for the flattery. What, are you supposed to be the Colette to my Cain, or something? Sorry dude, my door doesn't swing that way." Dean chuckled deeply. "You're overlooking one very important detail..."

Dean encroached on Sam, inserting himself into his personal space. He reeked of sulfur, and it took all of Sam's willpower not to back away.

"What if I don't want to fight it?" he hissed out. "What if I _like_ being damned?" Dean smiled maliciously, twisting his face in all the wrong ways. A chill crawled up Sam's spine.

"You're telling me you want to stay like this?"

"What can I say? I dig the new me. No pain, no day drinking and self-hatred..." Dean spread out his arms, grinning broadly. "Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!"

"Free of what? Humanity?" Sam demanded, suddenly very aware of Ruby's knife sheathed at his side.

"Humanity, all the friggin' guilt, the never-ending shitty responsibility of playing the 'hero'... and last but not least..." Dean leaned forward, eyes unfamiliar, cold and cruel. "I'm free of _you_. No more chasing around my punkass little brother. No more 'save Sam' bullshit." He smirked again and repeated, "I'm free."

"This isn't you, Dean. This is your worst nightmare."

Dean just shook his head, laughing to himself as he turned away. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sammy."

"I'm not leaving here without you," Sam called after him, voice ringing in the empty expanse of the church's sanctuary.

Dean halted, inhumanly still. "You're saying you're gonna try and make me?" Dean asked lowly, his back to Sam.

Sam straightened his shoulders, nostrils flaring as he braced himself for what was to come. He came in knowing full-well that he was going to have to fight Dean, but still, there had been a naive part of him that had hoped that maybe, Dean could be swayed with words alone.

But Dean, whether you human or demon, was infinitely stubborn.

"I'll do whatever it takes," Sam answered quietly.

Dean turned slowly, very slowly. He raised his right hand.

"Game on, little brother."

He snapped his fingers.

All of the church's numerous stained glass windows exploded simultaneously, raining fragments down on the two of them. Sam ducked, throwing his arms up to protect his face–

A hand grabbed the back of his hair. _Dean._ A moment later, he smashed Sam's head twice into the nearest pew, dazing him and sending lightning bolts of agony through his skull. Dean allowed him to slide to the floor.

"You're gonna have to do a lot better than that," Dean admonished, cracking his neck as Sam scrambled back up to his feet.

"Cheap shot," Sam defended. He drew Ruby's knife. It glinted menacingly in the early morning light now pouring through the empty window frames.

Dean seemed amused. "We both know that ain't gonna work on me."

"It may not kill you..." Sam flipped the blade around in his hand, then lunged at his brother. "But it'll still hurt!"

* * *

"Ambriel, please."

"Absolutely _not_."

"This is of utmost importance!"

The female angel crossed her arms, completely unimpressed by his pleas. "What kind of idiot would I have to be to give Metatron's second-in-command the keys to his jail cell?"

"_Former_ second-in-command," he reminded her. "I have made my loyalty to Castiel very clear."

"You were loyal to Metatron, too, until it stopped being convenient for you," she retorted, venom in her words.

Gadreel forced himself to remain patient. It was difficult not to allow his temper to get the best of him. Most of the Heavenly Host, whether on Asmodel's side or Castiel's, did not even remotely trust him. With his track record, he could hardly blame them.

"I have no intentions of freeing Metatron," he assured her. "I would sooner die."

"Yeah, and we saw how permanent your death was last time," she sighed irritably. "I don't have time for this." She swiveled on her stool, returning her attention to the angel radio. "Hannah?" Ambriel called. "We have a problem, and it's above my pay grade."

Gadreel relaxed slightly. He had managed to gain Hannah's trust (at least to some degree) since his resurrection. He might be able to convince her to help him.

A few seconds later, Hannah appeared behind what was once Metatron's desk. "What is it, Ambriel–" Hannah broke off abruptly when she saw him. "Gadreel," she greeted politely. "I had hoped we would hear from you soon." Her cool, professional expression seemed to falter somewhat when she asked, "How is he?"

He wished he had a different answer for her, but he gave her the truth: "Not well."

Hannah pursed her lips. "Is that why you're here?"

"Yes. I need you to allow me inside Metatron's cell."

Hannah was understandably taken aback by his statement. "Why would you need to do that?"

"I need to speak to him."

"Then do it from the other side of the bars!"

"It's not that simple."

Hannah shook her head. "I can't run the risk of him escaping. He already destroyed Heaven once. I can't allow him to do it again."

Gadreel's jaw tightened, and he looked away from the other angel, searching for the proper words to convince her. After some consideration, his eyes met hers once more.

"This could decide whether Castiel lives or dies," Gadreel told her, lowering his voice. "Sister, please. I need you to trust me, just as Castiel has."

Something in his Hannah's eyes broke, and he knew that he had won.

"I don't like this."

"Nor do I, but it must be done. There is no alternative, at least not one that I can see."

Hannah nodded. She went to Metatron's desk, sliding open the top drawer. After some searching, she pulled out a large key ring.

"If you're doing this," Hannah said, leveling a serious look at him, "I'm coming with you."

"So be it."

The two of them made for the elevator.

There was a human saying, one he'd heard through Sam Winchester's ears: bad things come in threes.

It was his third time returning to Heaven's prison since the Fall.

He could only hope it would be his last.

* * *

"Guess killing Crowley gave you a big head, huh?" Dean taunted him. Sam managed, just barely, to land a glancing strike on Dean's cheek with Ruby's knife. Sam had his brother pinned down, but he knew that wouldn't last for long–

Dean flipped them over. He grabbed Sam's wrists, pinning them over his head. "Thing is, Crowley? He's _nothing_ compared to me. Little bastard's been running screaming from what he is, ever since you shot him up with your blood. Me?" Dean grinned. "I'm diving straight into that Hellfire, baby."

Dean released his hands, only so he was free to bash his fist into Sam's nose. Blood poured down Sam's face, soaking his mouth and chin. He coughed, the taste of iron stinging his tongue and coating his lips.

"Come on, Sammy, fight back!" Dean urged, punching him in the face again. "You know, all those hunters I ripped apart in Illinois, they fought. _Oh_, did they fight. Didn't stop me from tearing 'em limb from limb, but it made for a fun ride."

With an incoherent shout of rage, Sam shoved Dean off of him. For the brief second that Dean was on the ground and vulnerable, Sam lashed out with Ruby's knife. It sank into Dean's thigh muscle. Orange light glowed from the wound. Dean inhaled sharply, wincing in pain.

Sam twisted. There was a war inside of him. Half of him hated himself for hurting Dean, his brother, his family– hell, his entire _world_. But the other half, the rational half, knew that he was facing an entirely different Dean, now. He was facing a Knight of Hell.

He ripped out Ruby's knife, only to immediately bury it in Dean's knee. That time, his brother let out a short, strangled scream.

Then he started... laughing.

"Now _that's_ more like it!"

With a flick of Dean's wrist, Sam was sent flying.

* * *

He didn't know how he knew it, but something deep inside of Castiel was absolutely sure he was entering the last hour of his life.

The hallucinations were getting worse. Or rather, the hallucination, singular, was getting much more vivid... and vocal.

"I guess I should be flattered," said the illusion of Dean Winchester leaning against his bedroom wall. "Somewhere in that rat maze of a brain of yours, you want me to be the last thing that you see."

Cas wanted to respond, but he was otherwise occupied vomiting copious amounts of blood into the bucket by his bedside.

"Did you ever think you would go out like this?" Dean wondered. "Dying slow and painful, bedridden? I mean, it just doesn't seem fitting, does it? You're an angel of the friggin' Lord! If anyone deserves the whole blaze of glory deal, it's you."

"I brought this on myself," Castiel coughed out in reply, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He sat down the bucket, then collapsed backwards. He curled into the fetal position, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

The pain was indescribable.

"You don't deserve this, man," Dean argued, crossing his arms. "Taking Theo's Grace, okay, maybe it wasn't the best move, strictly speaking. But everyone makes mistakes. You shouldn't have to lose everything because of it. That ain't fair."

"Life is rarely fair," Cas whispered, closing his eyes. "Perhaps this is my punishment."

"Punishment for what?"

A tremor ripped through him. "For failing you."

A few seconds of silence passed. Then, he felt the bed dip. Or rather, he _imagined_ feeling his bed dip.

"How do you figure that one?" Dean asked quietly.

"After Gadreel... I went with Sam. I should've stayed with you."

"Nah. Sam, he needed you."

"You needed me more," Cas insisted. "I could've... Crowley never would have..." His sentence disintegrated. Even the effort of speaking was becoming too much for him to handle.

"I made my own decisions, Cas. Crowley didn't force me into anything."

"You didn't know... it would turn you..." he wheezed.

"I knew there were risks," Dean said.

"I should've protected you. It was my purpose for... so long, and I forgot..."_ You draped yourself in the flag of Heaven, but ultimately, it was all about saving one human._

"Blaming yourself won't make me human again."

"There's nothing left for me to do..." Cas coughed with aching force. "How can I save you, when I can't even save myself?"

Cas nearly jumped when he felt a warm, steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Cas... I need you to do something for me."

Even dying, his immediate thought was, _anything._

"I need you to hold on."

Tears built in his eyes, because he _couldn't_. He had no strength left to fight with. No amount of digging in his heels could save him from the fate he'd sealed for himself.

"Dean... I– I can't..."

"You can, Cas. I know you can." He heard Dean's voice in his ear. "Just a little while longer. For me."

_It was all about saving one human..._

* * *

"What do you mean, play along?"

"It means that..." Gadreel struggled to find a way to properly explain the human concept to Hannah. "If I say something that is outwardly false, pretend as if you believe what I say to be true."

"Why?"

"Just... believe me. It is very efficacious. I learned this strategy from the Winchesters."

The elevator doors dinged open, revealing the dull, gray expanse of Heaven's prison. Gadreel's entire vessel tensed at the sight. His blunt fingernails dug into the meat of his palms. Once again, he found himself back in the ironic kind of Hell that had been his home for untold centuries. Nightmares haunted each corner, wrapped around his ankles and threatened to drag him back into the black memories that rapidly surfaced in his mind.

He took a deep breath. _You are free. You will never be captive here again._

He flexed his hands.

"Follow my lead," he instructed Hannah.

Hannah looked dubious, but she didn't argue with him. Once again, Gadreel trekked the path to the last cell on the left.

"The prodigal son returneth." Gadreel turned to face the Scribe, who looked just the same as when he'd visited Heaven's prison the day before. "Shock and disbelief! Let me guess: you've rethought my ever-so-generous offer?"

Gadreel inclined his head. "I have."

"I'm on the edge of my seat."

"Tell me the location of Castiel's Grace, and I will release you," Gadreel said.

Metatron, unsurprisingly, laughed. Gadreel knew that the Scribe wouldn't accept his terms, of course, but that was all part of his plan. "Try again, _Sad_reel. You want the goods? You cut me loose first. Last, final, and _only _deal."

Gadreel glanced at Hannah, attempting to send a message. _Now is the time to play along. _He shifted his eyes back to Metatron. "Fine. But only because I have no other choice." He removed the key ring from his pocket. Metatron smiled triumphantly.

"I knew you'd come around. Now, let's get to the good part of _Silence of the Lambs_, shall we? Hopefully I won't have to rip your face off."

Gadreel didn't have the faintest idea what Metatron was talking about, but that wasn't anything new. He inserted the key into the lock and turned. The prison door swung open with a raspy creak.

"Gadreel..." Hannah said, apprehension in her tone.

"It is the only way to save him, Hannah," Gadreel told her.

"Yeah, Hannah, it's the only way to save your precious _Commander_. By the way, if you're thinking of jumping on that trench coat, you'll have to get in line behind both of the Winchesters."

"Silence," Gadreel said, rounding Metatron so he was behind him. He began to undo the other angel's straight jacket. "The only thing I want to hear from you is the location of Castiel's Grace."

"We'll talk about that when I'm free and clear, big boy," Metatron snapped as his arms were freed. He stretched languidly. "_God_, that feels fantastic."

Gadreel looked over his shoulder at Hannah and mouthed 'door'. Thankfully, she seemed to understand what he wanted her to do. She promptly slammed the cell door shut. In one swift movement, Gadreel tossed her the key ring through the bars of the cell. She deftly caught them.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!?" Metatron exclaimed, enraged.

"You said Castiel's Grace is very close. You shouldn't have given that away, Metatron. I think the human saying is, it's what's on the inside that counts." Without hesitation, Gadreel jammed his hand into Metatron's chest, through bone, sinew, and muscle. The Scribe gasped in pain. "And I believe I know _exactly_ what is inside of _you_."

Blood poured down Metatron's chin as Gadreel searched with senses and fingers alike for what he needed to find.

"You're insane!" Metatron gagged.

_Found it._ Gadreel ripped his hand back out. Metatron dropped to his knees, struggling for breath.

In Gadreel's hand was a blood-stained vial of Grace.

* * *

"You know what this reminds me of, Sam?" Slam. "All those punches I took for you when we were kids... when Dad had had one too many shots of Jack, and got blackout drunk?" Crack. All Sam could taste was blood. "_I_ do. You ever wonder why he never touched you? It's 'cause I wouldn't let him."

"D–Dean–" Sam stammered out.

His brother's fist collided so hard with his jaw that it knocked him straight down on his ass. His head throbbed mercilessly. Black and pink spots spread across his vision, dancing.

"Ah, ah, didn't Dad teach you anything? You gotta be a good little soldier. I don't remember giving you permission to speak freely." Dean forcibly hauled him back to his feet, then slammed him against the wall, dazing him. "Gotta watch out for Sammy, gotta protect him, gotta keep him safe." Dean put his hand around Sam's throat and squeezed, his grip vice-like. "I wish the old man could see us now, don't you?"

Dean's eyes flashed black, in stark contrast with the jagged white of his smile. "You know," Dean continued, "I've never felt this good before. Ever," he said, and that sickening grin was the only thing that Sam could truly see as his vision faded in and out. Sharp... white... not his Dean. In the blurry fog of his mind (Did he have a concussion? Probably.) he only knew that he wanted his Dean back _so badly_.

Sam closed his eyes. He closed his eyes because a part of him, the part of him that was still a small boy who would cling to his big brother for protection from all of the monsters of the world, both real and imagined, hoped that maybe if he could pull himself out of the moment, out of reality, he would go back to a time when things were right, when things were how they were supposed to be. He and Dean against the world: brothers.

"Oh, no. You don't get to look away. I want you to look at me. I want you to see what I am."

And then there was harder pressure against his trachea, tight enough that it was a struggle to breathe, but not tight enough that he couldn't breathe at all. Dean wanted to draw their fight out. He felt his brother's too-hot breath ghost across his cheek, heard the scrape of Dean's gravel-deep voice in his ear, just like he remembered, but still off by a fraction.

"Look at me, Sam, or I'll cut out your eyes."

He knew that Dean wasn't joking. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, and the hazy image of his brother swam into focus. Dean's eyes were back to green, now, but even when they were their original color, they weren't the way they used to be. Nothing about Dean was the same. Dean pushed him up the wall until his feet were dangling a few inches above the ground, holding him up with one hand.

With his other hand, Dean drew the First Blade out of his jacket. "Ain't it funny how the tables have turned?" he asked, lips twitching, a subtle kind of madness in his gaze. "You were always the bad one. The one I had to keep dragging out of the dark, over and over again. The _boy king_, right? Satan's little meat puppet... and yet, here we are." He lifted the Blade, trailing it along Sam's collar bone.

Sam shuddered when the Blade touched him. It radiated malicious intent and raw, ancient power. It was cold, ice cold, not like Dean's Hellfire stained skin. It reminded Sam so much of Lucifer's presence that he could have sworn that the archangel was laughing from the deep recesses of his mind. He'd felt it when he'd held the Blade before, but now it seemed even more pervasive... the Blade held the devil's power, there was no questioning that. He could recognize Lucifer's influence anywhere.

After all... no one knew Lucifer better than he did.

"I'm a regular old Knight of Hell," Dean continued, "Which, now that I think about it... now that Crowley's dead, that makes me the strongest demon in the world, doesn't it?" Dean laughed under his breath. "So much for being the Righteous Man. Honestly, I think this suits me a hell of a lot better."

"Dean, please," Sam pleaded, voice wrecked. "I know you're still in there somewhere. You have to fight. The Blade, the Mark... you're better than this. _This isn't you_."

Green turned to black once more. "Sorry, little brother, but this _is_ me. I'm more me than I've ever been, thanks to the Blade." Dean pressed the Blade hard into the bottom of Sam's throat. Sam groaned in pain as the teeth of the donkey jawbone bit into his skin. Dean watched the blood drip down Sam's neck with an almost profane interest. "I actually found out an interesting tidbit about the Blade... turns out, it can get charged up."

Sam was half-sure his blood actually froze in his veins.

"I mean, yeah, it was kind of a given that the thing gets stronger the more you kill, right? But apparently, there's a way to pump up the Blade even more."

_He knows. He knows, and now he's going to kill you._

"Fratricide. Gotta do it just like Cain and Abel." He ran the Blade along Sam's throat. Dean finally released Sam's neck, and his feet hit the ground again. His legs threatened to collapse out from underneath him, but Dean's rough hand planted on his chest held him painfully in place. Dean pressed the Blade to Sam's jugular. The ancient weapon radiated an aura of unquenchable blood lust.

"Dean, _don't_," Seam said harshly, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. "Look at me. _Look at me!_" he screamed, and Dean did, but not the way he wanted him to. It was like he wasn't even really seeing him. "You can't do this. Not after everything we've been through together." There had to be something he could say, something he could do– Dean had always been able to reach him, no matter how far he fell, but the right words refused to come to him.

Sam didn't know how to stop him.

"We're family," Sam whispered brokenly.

In response, Dean let out a bark of a laugh. "That never meant anything to you before. Why start now?" Dean pulled the Blade away from him, tightening his grip on the hilt. "Later Sammy. It's been fun."

Dean swung the Blade.

Sam didn't close his eyes.

A tear slid down his cheek.

But–

–the Blade never came.

* * *

Sam was not in good shape. Gadreel didn't know whether he had the right to intervene between the two brothers, but he knew that if he didn't interfere, Dean would surely kill Sam. So, just as the Blade was about to meet Sam's neck, Gadreel swept in and transported the younger Winchester back to the bunker.

The moment Sam's feet touched the solid ground of the foyer, he collapsed forward. Gadreel was barely able to catch him before his face collided with the floor. He hauled Sam over to the table, seating him with care. Sam's head lolled, his forehead meeting Argentina on the world map. He was struggling for breath and bleeding profusely from various wounds.

Gadreel gingerly placed his hand on the back of Sam's head. With a push of his Grace, the hunter was fully healed. Sam breathed a deep sigh of relief. Slowly, he sat up. He wiped a sleeve across his face, mopping up some of the blood that was caked there.

"Gadreel?"

"Yes?"

"I think you just saved my life."

Gadreel bowed his head. "It... did appear that Dean intended to–"

"Kill me. Yeah." Sam pushed himself out of his chair, something dark and inscrutable in his gray-green eyes. "But that wasn't Dean."

Gadreel remained silent. He wasn't sure what to say.

"That... was the Blade. The Mark. It's completely taken him over."

"Did you expect a different outcome?" Gadreel questioned.

"I hoped it would be different." A muscle in Sam's jaw twitched as he braced himself on the back of his chair. "Now all I can do is hope that somewhere in there, Dean is still alive. Even if it's just some microscopic piece of him... it's enough."

"Will you chase after your brother again?"

Sam swallowed with visible effort. "I'll never stop chasing after him. But for now..." His grip on the chair turned white-knuckled. "I have to focus on what I'm able to change. On what I'm able to help. Finding the rings, stopping the next civil war in Heaven..." He sighed deeply. "Saving Cas, most importantly."

Unable to help himself, Gadreel smiled.

"About that..." Gadreel reached into his pocket. He pulled out the bloodstained vial of Grace.

Sam stared at it in unabashed shock. "Is that–"

"It is."

"How did you–"

"May I explain after we return this Grace to its rightful owner?"

"Yeah, yeah!" Sam was already rushing for Cas's room. "Come on!"

* * *

"Dean... I..."

"Just a little longer, Cas. Please."

"...can't."

Castiel had never experienced a slow death before. He was used to _booms_, to _pops_, to being destroyed from the inside out in a matter of seconds. Slow and agonizingly wasting away, feeling the life slip from him, draining second by second like sand in an hourglass...

Yes, he was sure he liked the explosions better.

Why was it so dark?

"Cas!" He felt hands on the side of his face, Dean's hands, and it reminded him of the time that he'd died as a human, when April stabbed him through the heart with his own angel blade.

Dean was the last thing he felt that time, too. Truthfully, he wouldn't want to have it any other way.

Dean's hand patted his cheek. "How do we do this?" he asked, and Cas didn't know what he meant... and was his voice changing, or was it just his imagination...?

"Open his mouth," another not-Dean voice said. He realized that the hands cupping his face were far too large to be Dean's. One hand went to his forehead, and the other went to his jaw. His mouth was forcibly opened.

"Do it!" Sam. Yes. That was the owner of the voice. What was he doing?

_...where's Dean..._

Suddenly, he felt something pouring into his mouth, something pure and sweet and so, _so_ familiar. It swept down his throat, then swiftly moved through his veins. He let out a loud gasp, eyes snapping open as pure, blissful life flowed back into him.

_My Grace_–_!_

The electrifying energy washed over him like a wave, kissing each nerve, each muscle and bone, healing, nourishing, restoring. It was the greatest relief he'd ever felt in the entirety of his long existence.

He bolted up in his blood and sweat-soaked sickbed, his eyes glowing a brilliant white-blue, illuminating the entire room. His wings were renewed, feather by feather. He was a true angel again. His wings unfurled on either side of him, mere shadows to Sam, but to those with eyes that could _see_, they were enormous and midnight blue, radiating with Grace.

_Can it really be?_

He was whole again.

The light faded. Castiel blinked out of existence, reappearing behind Sam and Gadreel. He stared down at his hands, briefly marveling in awe before looking up at his friends, a grin working its way onto his features.

"I'm alive," he breathed out, amazed.

Sam stepped forward, pulling Cas into a tight hug. "You're gonna be okay, Cas."

Cas hugged him back just as tightly. "How did you–"

"Not me." He pulled back slightly, turning his eyes to the side. "It was Gadreel."

Gadreel shuffled, almost seeming uncomfortable. "I found where Metatron hid the Grace he stole from you," he explained.

"Thank you," Cas said, seeming genuinely touched. "Thank you so much." Cas pulled one arm away from Sam. "Bring it in."

Gadreel's brow furrowed. "Bring what in?"

"Group hug, Gadreel," Sam elaborated. "It's a human thing." He held out his other arm, and hesitantly, the angel made his way over to them. As one, Sam and Cas pulled Gadreel in.

Carefully, Gadreel put one arm around Cas's back, and one arm around Sam's.

"I am... very glad you're alive, Castiel."

"I'm very glad to be alive, brother."


	26. The Man Who Once Was King

**Chapter 26 - The Man Who Once Was King**

* * *

Just as the sun crested the Missouri hills, Crowley drifted off into a surprisingly sound sleep. As she drove, Ronnie would steal glances at him out of the corner of her eye. It was strange, to see him like this. The tension had eased from his face, his chest rising and falling slowly. Maybe he found peace in his dreams, or lack thereof. She hoped so.

Juliet had shifted so her massive head rested on the console between Ronnie and Crowley. Her eyes were closed, too. Ronnie didn't know what to make of that. Could hellhounds sleep? Or was she just so in tune with Crowley that when he rested, she rested? She flexed the hand that held the ring that allowed her to see Juliet. More mysteries. She supposed with Crowley living with her, she'd have plenty of time to ask him about it.

Crowley living with her. Being in close quarters with him, day in and day out, until they figured out...

Yeah. That was where her mind kept stalling. There was no visible solution for Crowley's situation.

She could try to teach him how to be human, try to help him heal, and deal with the guilt. Until he... got back on his feet, she supposed. Whatever Crowley's definition of "back on his feet" was.

All she could do was focus on the now. Right now, they needed to be home, and safe. Crowley had wounds that needed tending. He needed to eat, and more rest wouldn't be out of the question. While he adjusted to humanity, she would try her best to mend bridges with her family. She had no doubt both her parents and her brother were terrified for her at the moment. Once they found out she was back, that terror would likely turn to anger, seeing as how she'd disappeared on them and only left a note behind.

It wasn't like she could tell them she'd been the unwilling house guest of the King of Hell for the better part of the past month. No, that wouldn't go over well at all.

Another glance at Crowley.

_What will you be like as a human? _

Juliet stirred next to her, snuffling a bit. Ronnie rested her hand on her head, feeling the eerie propane-like flames of Juliet's aura wrap around her fingers. _Like petting fire_, she mused.

Taking the King of Hell and his hellhound home to live with her. Crowley was right: she was insane.

"God help me," she muttered to herself.

* * *

Late that night, they arrived back in DC. Veronica shook Crowley awake just as they were entering Fairfax. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, despising the lack of clarity, struggling to wrangle his stray thoughts into a cohesive line. He checked the clock.

"I can't have been asleep this whole time," he insisted upon seeing it was half-past 10pm.

"Oh, you were." Veronica had a touch of a smile on her lips. "Making up for not sleeping for a few hundred years, I guess."

Juliet lifted her head. She woofed, and Crowley fumbled around, searching for her ear so he could give it a scratch. He hated not being able to see her. Perhaps he could fashion another ring like Veronica's for himself. It would just be a matter of collecting the proper materials from his warehouses...

Which were scattered around the world and out of his reach without teleportation.

_Damn it._

Soon enough, they pulled into the parking garage of Veronica's apartment complex. She had a spot with her name on it and everything. High class. However, a red PT Cruiser was parked there, presumably Veronica's car.

"I'll have to use guest parking for your Bentley," she said. "I'm just glad no one's stolen my car since I've been gone. Security at this place isn't exactly high."

She parked the car, killed the engine, and stepped out. She stretched languidly. "Gosh, it feels good to stand. I'll be lucky if I don't get blood clots from all of this. I haven't stopped anywhere in over eight hours."

Crowley felt similarly stiff when he rose. He had to brace himself on the side of the Bentley as an overwhelming pins and needles sensation dominated his legs.

More things to hate about being human.

Once he could stand properly, he followed Veronica inside the complex and up the stairs, Juliet bounding along behind them.

Veronica's apartment was exactly as it had been when Crowley had abducted her three weeks prior, with only two apparent exceptions: there was now a thin layer of dust covering every surface, and the note he had ordered her to write was no longer on the kitchen table.

They both paused when they stepped inside. Veronica's eyes slipped closed for a brief moment, inhaling the scent of her home. The air was stale from what Crowley could tell, but it still held a trace of Veronica's typical odor. It was a feminine smell, something fresh and clean, with a touch of apple.

When her eyes opened, she said, "Home sweet home." She then pushed the door shut and immediately went to the kitchen, scrambling around in the cupboards. "Sit," she told him.

"What are you doing?" Crowley questioned as the chaplain set a mug down on the island. He sank down onto one of the bar stools, elbows resting on icy marble. Cold. He was bloody sick of feeling cold.

"I'm making you hot chocolate, and then you're going to take a shower, and I'm going to put you in some clean clothes," Veronica responded as she pulled out a box of hot chocolate mix.

"Don't suppose you have anything more alcoholic?" he asked dully.

"Sorry. I don't keep anything like that in my fridge."

"Predictable." He crossed his arms and rested his forehead on them, still feeling exhausted, in spite of the fact that he'd just slept the day away. Was this was what humanity had been like the first time around? Endlessly tiring, endlessly cold? Hungry and frightening, painful and confusing?

_All together too much,_ Crowley decided, his eyes pinching shut as a wave of poignant emotion rising inside of him. Indiscernible, swirling, a multi-colored agony that all blended together. He was drowning, truly.

"Hey, come on. Drink up." Veronica's voice forced him back to his senses. Slowly, he lifted his head. A steaming mug of hot chocolate sat in front of him, and Veronica was watching him with concern. He must've drifted off for a few minutes. He hadn't even heard the microwave beep.

"I didn't poison it," she promised, with a flicker of a strained smile. She picked up the cup, took a brief sip, and then set it back down. "See?"

Slowly, Crowley wrapped his hands around the mug, warming the palms of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips and drank. The hot liquid poured down his throat, almost burning, but not quite. It had been ages since he'd had chocolate, since that ill-fated (at least for the good sheriff) date with Jody Mills well over a year ago.

The sweet taste was pleasant and heavy on his tongue. Veronica beamed at him as he drank deeply, as if she'd attained some small victory.

"I'll go start the shower for you." Veronica made her way down the hall. A few seconds later, he heard the spray of the shower. Crowley drained the remainder of the hot chocolate, relishing the brief relief it granted him. His skin was ice, but on the inside, he was thawed, at least in part.

He heard Veronica humming. The tune was something familiar, but he couldn't name it for the life of him.

"Shower's ready," she called.

Limbs stiff and protesting all the way, Crowley got to his feet. He wandered down the hall, finding Veronica in the threshold of a small but clean bathroom. She had clothes folded in her arms and handed them to Crowley.

"My brother's clothes," Veronica explained. "You'll need something clean to wear when you get out, and he's close to your size."

He just nodded. "Ah... thanks." Because what else was he supposed to say?

"No problem." Veronica backed out of the bathroom and closed the door. Crowley deposited his borrowed clothes on the counter by the sink. His reflection caught his attention, and mostly unwillingly, he met his own eyes.

That was a stark thought all on its own, that the dark green eyes staring back at him under heavy lids were his own, not his vessel's. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, breathing deeply. He opened them, hoped desperately to see crimson, to see what he was on the inside reflected back at him.

But it wasn't so. No red. Just that pine green. Scared human eyes, fittingly belonging to a scared human.

_Well here you are, the ultimate high. Are you happy now? _he thought bitterly. With effort, he turned from the mirror, jaw hard and fists clenched. With stilted movements, he began to undress. Strange, having to do it manually. It had been so easy to change before. All it required was a snap of his fingers.

No longer. Once he was bare, he stepped into the hot spray, a soft sigh escaping him when the water hit him. It was sweet relief from the cold, and the steam helped him to breathe easier. Easier than he had since he was turned. The burning droplets pummeling him eased his tight muscles. It stung the wounds on his face, but the pain was far from unbearable.

He didn't know how long he just stood there, forehead resting against the tile wall, just breathing, just being. It calmed him. Calmed the erratic, screaming thing in his chest, the thing that pounded against his ribs and shook him to his core.

The water faded from near-scalding to lukewarm, and Crowley remembered that showering consisted of more than just standing and letting water beat down on you. He searched through the various bottles on the small shelf in the shower, all a shade of pink or orange, all either scented like some kind of citrus or fruit.

He eventually selected white citrus body wash, whatever the bloody hell that was supposed to smell like, and eternal sunshine shampoo. How fitting. He washed himself thoroughly, trying to scrub the grime of the memory off of his skin. Evidently, he scrubbed too hard on his face, as he noticed there was blood swirling around his feet.

He touched the wound on his forehead. Ah. He'd ripped open the scab. He stared at the blood. Human blood. He felt no hunger. Well, at least the cure had done that much for him. He couldn't very well be a junkie anymore, given the fact that he'd essentially become his drug of choice.

When Crowley was as clean as he could be, he stepped out of the shower and into the bathroom, which was thick with steam. The mirror had fogged up, and he was grateful for that much. Facing himself was not what he wanted right now.

Once he was dry, Crowley dressed himself in the clean clothes Veronica had given him. He tugged on the black sweater, gray boxers, and dark jeans. The clothes were too tight in some places and too loose in others, but it was better than rewearing the damp, bloody suit he'd been in for days.

He shifted, uncomfortable. Odd to be wearing something that wasn't worth a small fortune. He exited the bathroom into a house that was now warm and yellow with light. Veronica had seemingly turned on every lamp in the entire apartment. The scent of cooking food was in the air. In the kitchen, Veronica was stirring something on the stove. She didn't seem to hear him enter the main part of the apartment.

He made his way into the living room, wandering around and examining Veronica's various possessions, just as he had the last time he was there. Snow globes. He wondered why she seemed to like them so much. His eyes ran over the pictures he'd examined last time. He guided his finger over the one of her and her unit. She didn't carry herself like a woman weighed down by grief, which seemed impossible, given all that she'd lost. He dusted off the picture, then moved on.

She had two crates of records behind her couch. Crowley lowered himself to the ground. He sat cross-legged in front of them. Welcoming the distraction, he flipped through them. He felt something nudge his shoulder. A happy growl told him Juliet was beside him. He rubbed his hand along her spine, and she laid down by his side, resting her head in his lap.

Had Veronica had the opportunity to meet Dean when he'd been a human, he was relatively sure that the two of them would have gotten along famously. She had a healthy collection of classic rock. Most of it was out of the scope of Crowley's interests, but an Earth, Wind, and Fire album caught his eye. She wasn't a total lost cause, then.

"It's weird seeing you in jeans."

Crowley jumped slightly at the sound of Veronica's voice behind him. He looked up at her, and she seemed faintly amused.

"Actually, it's weird seeing you in Matt's clothes, period."

"Can't say much for his taste," Crowley commented.

"Well, you're in mostly black. Isn't that kind of your comfort zone?" She nodded towards the kitchen. "Think you can eat something?"

He felt the pangs of hunger strongly, now. He still didn't want to eat, but he knew that his body needed him to. "Yes, I can manage."

Veronica offered him her hand. After a moment, he took her small, slender hand, and she helped him to stand. He followed her into the kitchen, where there were two bowls at the island, along with glasses of water.

"I don't have much in the apartment that isn't expired," Veronica said by way of explanation. She took one of the stools, and Crowley took the other. He saw now that she'd made ramen noodles.

He grimaced down at the bowl. "This is food?"

"Since the definition of food is 'edible', yes," Ronnie replied, a spoonful of noodles already in her mouth.

Crowley took a wary test bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Veronica watched him with narrowed eyes. "Well?"

Crowley snorted. "Tastes like poverty."

"You're such a snob," Veronica said with half a laugh. "I'd offer to make you something else, but that's about all I've got in the way of non-perishables. And sorry, whose fault is that?"

He contemplated abstaining, but on the grounds that he felt faint from hunger, he ate in spite of his misgivings.

The two of them ate in relative silence, because really, what was there to say to one another? Neither of them really knew what this was, the two of them, captor and captive, and his captive was doing everything in her power to care for him.

Mad girl. Certifiably _mental._

When they were done, and their dishes were in the sink, Veronica turned to him. "It's high time we take care of your face."

"I can tend to my own injuries, Veronica."

"Really? When was the last time you had to stitch up your own cuts without demonic assistance?"

"I'll be fine," he said stiffly, moving to brush past her and head to the bathroom. However, she grabbed his wrist and halted his progress.

"Just let me do this for you," she told him, hazel eyes honest. "I'm kind of freaking out right now, and I don't have half a clue how to help you. So please. I can at least keep you from getting an infection."

He stared at her for a long moment, and she stared right back, gaze searching. "If your goal is to help me, then you're lining yourself up to be disappointed, darling."

Still holding onto his wrist, she took him back to the bathroom. He let her sit him on the toilet, though he rolled his eyes in the process, earning him a withering look from Veronica. She knelt down, rifling through a cabinet under the sink. She took out a sizable field surgeon kit.

"Souvenir from your last tour?"

Veronica shook her head. "Military surplus store."

"Ever needed to use it?"

She nodded. "Once. I nearly cut my finger off cooking dinner a year back, and I had to stitch myself up," she said as she rifled through the kit.

"Most people would just go to hospital."

"I'm not big on hospitals, truth be told," she replied as she began cleansing the cuts scattered on his face, and the ones he had on his throat and wrists from his bindings. And of course, the eight needle marks on the side of his neck.

"Why are you doing this, Veronica?" Crowley eventually asked her, eyes trained firmly on the opposite wall.

"Ronnie," she corrected. "And I already told you."

"I don't mean this as in _this_, I mean _this_ as in _all_ of this. Why did you come for me at all? Why did you bring the demon that kidnapped you back to your own home?"

Veronica's lips transformed into a thin, pensive line. "I told you before. I think I'm seeing you in my visions for a reason. You're part of a bigger plan, Crowley. You staying alive and being okay? That's important."

"What purpose could I possibly serve now? I'm human. I can't do anything. I've been taken off the board completely."

"Just because you're human doesn't mean you're useless," Veronica said adamantly. "Look at the Winchesters! Or any of the other hunters out there! Look at the prophets! All of them are human, and they still matter. So do you, Crowley. You're only as useless as you allow yourself to be."

"What the hell can I do?" Crowley challenged.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I guess the fun will be in finding out."

"You have a very warped concept of fun, I hope you know that," he replied.

She discarded the swab she'd been using to the side, exchanging it for a small suture kit. "I'm gonna have to sew this big one up on your head," she informed him. "By the way, I made up the guest room for you. It might be a little bit musty, but the bed's comfy, at least."

"And then what?" Crowley asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you expect me to just shack up with you? Or more to the point, do you actually want me to?"

"I have no problem with you staying here."

Crowley stared at her. "Just paying me back for my heartwarming hospitality?"

"You gonna rattle off more psychology terminology at me? Call it capture-bonding, call it delusion, call it insanity, if you want. But unless you've got a better idea, you're staying here."

"Taking in the most powerful, evil demon that's ever walked this earth as a charity case... There must be something against that in the Good Book."

"There's not a thing in the Bible against helping people."

"And pray tell, how do you plan on helping me?"

Veronica paused for a moment. "I have absolutely no idea."

"I thought as much."

* * *

When Veronica was satisfied that Crowley's injuries were sufficiently dealt with, she sent him off to bed, saying that he looked like he was ready to fall over in a surprisingly motherly voice. Or at least Crowley assumed it was motherly. He never got much more than disinterested scowls and snarks from his own mother, so he couldn't claim to know what the typical maternal entity sounded like.

He obeyed her without too much grumbling, making his way to the guest bedroom. It was modestly decorated in blue and gray tones, mostly devoid of furniture. Just a double bed and a large dresser.

"Are you going to be okay sleeping alone?" Veronica asked, because she was bloody Veronica, and that's what she did.

"Are you offering to keep me company?" Crowley glanced at her over his shoulder, eyebrows raising suggestively. "I certainly wouldn't mind."

Veronica snorted. "Very funny. I meant, I could sleep on the floor, or something. Or we could camp out in the living room. Whatever you're comfortable with. I mean, you're sleeping for the first time in centuries. I understand if it's-"

"I'm not afraid of sleeping, love. I'm a big boy. I did fine in the car."

"But I was there in the car-"

"I won't be alone. I have my dear sweet Juliet." He scratched behind his hellhound's ear. "Go to bed, you look like you're about to faint. When was the last time you actually slept?" he asked, making an effort to keep his voice light, though he felt the opposite.

"...Two days ago," she admitted sheepishly.

Crowley pointed towards the door. "Go."

"Okay, okay." She held up her hands in defeat, heading for the door, but Crowley halted her with his voice.

"Veronica."

"Ronnie," she corrected. "And yes?"

He rolled his eyes. "I suppose I should say thank you."

"It wouldn't be uncalled for."

"Thank you," he said. "Also: this is going to end badly. Possibly in both of our deaths."

"I understand that."

"You're going to change your mind."

"I'm not."

Crowley gave her a look.

"You look like you want to smack some sense into me," Veronica told him. "Which is probably a bad idea, because I could totally beat you in a fight, now."

"Going to take me to task, are you?" He smirked weakly. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

Veronica coughed exaggeratedly into her hand. "Sarcasm as a defense mechanism."

"Who says I'm being sarcastic?"

She chuckled and headed for the door. Just before she left, she looked back at him.

"Sweet dreams, Crowley."

* * *

_A/N: I know not much happened in this chapter, but it was meant to function as a kind of interlude between the story's first and second arc. I tend to do a "three arc" system with my long fics. That should also give you an idea of just how lengthy this'll end up being... hehe..._


	27. Made to Follow Fire

**Chapter 27 –** **Made to Follow Fire**

* * *

Dean had slaughtered no less than a quarter of Crowley's staff by the time he'd calmed down over his defeat. Shoes smearing bloody footprints on Crowley's precious Persian rugs, he marched straight up to the King's office, shouting for Laharl and Kayce in a blind rage, solely because they were the highest ranking of Crowley's demon's that he hadn't murdered. Yet.

"Is there, ah, something we can do for you, boss?" Laharl asked, looking ready to jump straight out of his meat suit. Kayce seemed less terrified than Laharl, but he watched Dean's every move with nearly unnerving attention, like he was some kind of ticking time bomb.

Fair enough, he supposed. He certainly felt like a bomb about to go off. Right now he was just trying to figure out who he wanted in his blast radius.

"Crowley's not here anymore. He's probably dead, full disclosure." Kayce didn't seem too deeply affected by the news, a little surprised, maybe, but Laharl's eyes widened in horror. "Happens. But anyway, I'm guessing if it's a survival of the fittest kind of thing in Hell, that makes me top dog, right?"

Neither of them responded.

"RIGHT!?"

"Yeah, yeah, sounds about right," Laharl said hurriedly, Kayce nodding his agreement.

"It would only make sense, of course, that the strongest demon would take the throne–" Kayce tacked on.

"Fuck the throne," Dean snapped. "I don't care about all that managerial bullshit Crowley put up with. I'm not some fucking bureaucrat. But the resources? Oh yeah. I'll take the resources." He pointed at the two demons. "You two. Find me. My. Brother. Gadreel, too, Cas– any of them. I get one, I'll get 'em all. You and the rest of Crowley's staff wanna keep breathing, you get me what I want. Got it?"

Two nods.

"Good. Now get the hell out of my office."

The two demons scurried out. With a flick of his hand, Dean slammed the door behind them and sank down into what had once been Crowley's chair.

He'd been ready to kill Sam. Cut out his greatest weakness and use it to make him even stronger. To make the Blade the most fearsome damn thing on the planet.

And then that fucking angel that didn't know how to stay dead had to sweep in and screw things up. He was pissed. Anger had been something itchy and unshakeable in his old life, something always there under the surface. Now it was a fire, burning hot, boiling over and flooding him. It drove him... and he was ready to burn down anyone that dared get in his way.

Up to and including every angel Heaven could throw at him.

_Better watch out, Sammy... I'll find you. It's only a matter of time._

* * *

In a place of eternal twilight, Gadreel walked through a field of the dead.

He didn't know the owner of the Heaven that the most recent battle took place in, but he knew that as it stood now, it was no one's definition of Paradise. The smell that permeates the air in wake of angelic combat was difficult to describe. Almost like... the smell of a tree hit by lightning. A charged, burnt odor.

"Why?" he murmured to himself. "Why do angels always seek to destroy one another? What is there to gain from all of this?"

"I've been asking myself that for years, Gadreel." Gadreel turned to see Castiel behind him. "I still haven't found an answer. Not one that I like."

"And the answer you dislike?"

"We're soldiers." Castiel's expression was grave. "Built for war. Built for bloodshed... the Reapers aren't the only ones of our number crafted to bring death."

Gadreel dipped his head as Castiel came to stand beside him. "It wasn't always like this. Do you remember when we were first created? In the beginning?"

"Less and less as time goes on," Castiel admitted, the fading rays of the dying sun shining on his face, giving him an almost ethereal glow. "But I remember it was a time of peace. Our Father loved us. We loved Him... and we loved each other. All of us."

As one, they both looked down. A torn apart, bloody angel rested at their feet, her eyes staring up into nothingness, mouth agape. She'd died screaming.

"And this is what we've become," Gadreel said quietly.

Castiel tilted his head up. "But there is always a chance to become something better. Angels can change. I know they can."

Their eyes met, and Gadreel understood the unspoken message.

"Should we return?" Gadreel asked. He and Castiel had left for Heaven once Castiel was healed, promising to come back to Sam once they were updated on the steadily brewing civil war in Heaven.

Upon appearing in Heaven's anchor-point, the celestial construct that held Heaven's prison and what was once the intelligence division, they'd found Hannah trying to make sense of the chaos. She'd sent them here, to the epicenter of Asmodel's most recent wave of destruction.

The latest attack had been almost as volatile as his opening move. The casualties were staggering to the point where Gadreel truly wondered whether Asmodel's goal was to reignite the apocalypse, or if he simply wished to destroy every angel that would not bow to his will.

Either way, he and Castiel both knew one thing: this was one war that could not be won on the battlefield. They were outnumbered and outgunned.

_We have to find another way._

"There is little we can do here," Castiel admitted reluctantly. "I will tell Hannah to withdraw to Heaven's prison. Perhaps if we can hold onto that much..." He trailed off with a sigh. "I never wanted to be in this position again. I never wanted to wage another war, to be a general in a pointless fight."

"This war is not one of your making. And you lead because there is no one else that the angels would follow with any kind of loyalty."

"That loyalty is not something I've earned. Not after everything that I've done."

"You fight for what you believe is right," Gadreel stated, leaving little room for argument. "There is nothing more honorable than that. You deserve their loyalty."

Another sweeping look at the rows of corpses. Castiel's eyes dimmed. "And this is what they're loyalty has gotten them."

"Better to die for what you believe in than take the coward's way out."

Castiel sighed. "If I could have just one thing for Heaven, it would be that no angel would ever again have to choose between running and surviving, or standing up and dying."

"That wish may yet come true."

"I hope so." He spread out his wings, back to their healthy midnight blue now that his Grace was restored. "Before we return to Sam... will you help me gather the dead? It only seems right."

Mournfully, Gadreel nodded, and they set about collecting the bodies of their fallen brothers and sisters.

* * *

There was only one feeling in the world that Sam really, truly hated.

Helplessness.

Perhaps it was because he felt it so rarely. Because no matter how deep a hole he and Dean dug themselves (and the world) into, there was always a way out. Perhaps not an immediately apparent one, or an easy one, but there was always a way. There was a quote he'd stumbled across once in one of his Lit classes at Stanford. He couldn't remember the source, but it read simply: helplessness breeds hopelessness.

How true.

There were two problems in Sam's life, at the moment. His demonic brother, and the plan to restart the apocalypse that gained momentum in Heaven by the day. One of those problems he could manage. The other, he could not.

The path to stopping Asmodel and his Apocalypse Now plan seemed clear; find the Horsemen Rings, secure them someplace safe, kill/disable Asmodel and find a way to break apart his forces. The road to accomplishing any of that would not be a fun one, or an easy one, but it was doable. He'd done more with less, and he and Cas had faced a hell of a lot worse than some angel who wanted to bring back the glory days.

But that left Dean.

Dean, who...

_"This _is_ me, little brother. I'm more me than I've ever been."_

It had all worked out so perfectly in his head. He'd go in, give Dean some speech on brotherly love, and they'd be back at it again the next day, saving the world together, black eyes or not. Because Dean would _want_ to be saved, wouldn't he? He would want to be human again, to escape the Blade's influence.

Sam had insisted just hours beforehand that he wouldn't fight Dean. Told Cas in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't fight him.

But he had. Because it had become clear so goddamn quickly that Dean was not Dean, and Dean didn't want what he was selling... because Dean would have killed him with a smile on his face, if Gadreel hadn't flown in when he had.

His own brother had tried to kill him.

Yeah. That was a hard thing to sit with.

Tearing through lore book number who-fucking-knew-anymore, and he still couldn't fully comprehend that. He didn't think Dean could ever fall that far, ever turn so dark that he'd kill Sam for power.

Nevertheless, Sam was a realist. He could recognize the wake-up call for what it was.

_That demon isn't your brother._

Until he could find a way to get rid of said demon and get his brother back... well. He had to change tactics. Wishful thinking and the Power of Love would not save Dean. According to Cain, nothing could. Separating Dean from the Blade could prove to be exactly what he needed, though. That's what allowed Cain to reform himself, to become something that was practically human, lifestyle wise.

How to get the Blade away from Dean, though?

The answer: find a weapon to match the Blade, and take Dean on.

No more cures. No more six hundred page Arabic texts on how to save a corrupted soul. No, what Sam was looking for now was a weapon. A weapon that could take on a Knight of Hell– THE Knight of Hell.

But even that was a shot in the dark.

He was forced to face the fact, as he relentlessly searched for answers amongst the files of the Men of Letters, that there might be no way out of this one. Aside from an archangel or another Knight of Hell, what could stop Dean? And nothing Sam could say would change him if Dean had truly lost himself.

_No happy ending this time._

"Sam?"

Sam blinked blearily, rubbing his palm over his face, trying to force away sleep. It was late into the night. He needed rest, but every time he tried, the image burned into the backs of his eyelids would stare at him: Dean's eyes, black as the abyss.

He turned in his seat. Cas stood behind him, looking miserable. "Didn't go well, I take it?"

"We sustained many more casualties," came Cas's stilted reply. The angel practically jumped to change the subject, evidently not feeling inclined to elaborate. "Have you come up with a list for us?"

Before they'd left, Sam said he would put together a list of the necessary ingredients needed to create a portal in and out of Magnus's stronghold. He knew what he'd sent Crowley to gather last time. Now, it would be up to Gadreel and Cas to assemble what they needed. Granted, they didn't have warehouses full of arcane ingredients scattered all over the planet like Crowley, but Cas was resourceful. Everything on the list was easier to find than Egyptian calf skull, he knew that much.

Now that they were stalled on the Dean front, Crowley was permanently off the board, and Cas was healed, they could finally resume following the trail of the Horsemen rings. Hopefully the info they'd gotten from Dick Roman's daughter was solid, and Magnus really was the last person in possession of the rings.

Sam handed the folded up notebook paper to Cas. "Everything's there. I remember the incantation and how to brew it all together so the portal will open. I just need the stuff."

Cas nodded, scanning his eyes down the list. "Salt of the Dead Sea... crushed harpy talon... essence of chernobog..." He grimaced. "It won't be pleasant, but I can find them for you by tomorrow."

"Good, good." Sam ran a hand through his hair, every ounce of exhaustion he felt seeming to catch up with him at once. "Where's Gadreel?"

"He decided to stay in Heaven for a bit longer, help tend to the wounded, rebuild their defenses... It's probably for the best. Hannah could certainly benefit from his help, and I believe I'd prove more useful here with you." A flicker of a sad smile crossed Cas's features. "As usual."

Sam clapped his arm. "Always. Look... you _are_ back at a hundred percent, right? You don't need anymore time to recharge your batteries?"

Something deep and painful flashed briefly in Cas's eyes, and it took Sam only a moment to realize why: _That sounds like something Dean would have said._

Well, if Dean wasn't here, someone had to be the Mom Friend. Might as well be him.

"I'm fine, Sam. Better than I've been in a very long time." Cas straightened his shoulders. "I feel alive again."

"I'm happy to hear it." He rose to his feet. "Just don't overdo it, okay? There's no harm in easing back into things."

"I appreciate your concern, but there's no need for it. With my Grace back in working order, I'm stronger than I've been since before the Fall."

"Hard to believe that was almost a year ago." Sam brushed past Cas. He needed to sleep. If he didn't, he'd just pass out anyway as soon as Cas left. His bed was looking a lot better than the table in the library. "Good luck, Cas. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sam... wait."

He halted in the threshold, turning back to look at Cas. The angel wouldn't look at him, instead staring off at some fixed point on the opposite wall, blue eyes troubled and distant.

"You... how bad was he?" Cas said, voice low. There's that sound in someone's voice, that sound where they're asking a question, but they really don't want to know the answer.

Cas didn't want to hear the answer about as much as Sam didn't want to say it, but he was never any good at lying to the angel. "Bad, Cas. Really bad."

"Do you think there's any chance that he'll come back to us?"

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it?

"Not while he's still got the Blade. Maybe if it was just the Mark, he'd be able to fight it off on his own, but the Blade... it's poisoning his mind." Sam swallowed with difficulty, bracing himself on the doorway. "That reminds me. Cas, have you ever heard anything about the Blade getting stronger the more it kills?"

He nodded. "The more blood it takes, the more powerful it becomes. Why?"

"Is there anything in the legend about it not reaching its peak until the wielder kills their own brother?"

His back was to Cas, but he could picture the angel's horrified expression with perfect clarity.

"Dean tried to kill you, didn't he?"

Sam didn't respond.

"Sam..."

"He's not my brother. Not right now. And until we get that thing away from him... there's no hope."

Silence. Heavy and unsettling. He'd meant to be more delicate about the whole Dean situation, knowing that it would hurt Cas to hear it, but how could he sugarcoat it? There was no bright side to what had happened, no positive spin he could put on it other than, _"Hey, at least I didn't die!"_

"Did you tell him?"

It took Sam a moment to realize what Cas was talking about.

_"Tell Dean... tell him I'm sorry."_

"No," Sam said softly. "I didn't tell him. I'll tell him you're sorry – no, _you'll_ tell him you're sorry – when he'll actually be able to hear it." He turned around, catching Cas's eye. "Not that I think you have anything to be sorry about. And you know that the real Dean would tell you the same thing."

Cas's eyes dulled with a mixture of restrained anger and sadness. "Maybe you're right."

They just looked at each other for a few seconds, the moment seeming to stall out and fizzle between them.

"You know," Sam said. "This is the part where one of us would say, don't worry, we'll save him. We'll get him back. Everything will be okay. There's always a way... something like that."

Cas frowned deeply.

"Should I be worried that neither of us are saying that this time?" he asked, his voice almost breaking, because he'd never seen Cas look so damn hopeless, and hell, he's never_ felt_ so hopeless.

Instead of offering a reply, Cas disappeared with a flap of his wings.

* * *

_Crowley watches himself from the outside looking in, watches himself lounging on Hell's Black Throne, alone. He only ever sat on it once, when he originally took Hell for himself. For all he desired to rule it, he still hated the bloody place, and didn't want to spend anymore time there than necessary._

_Hell, after all... is Hell._

_He's surprised when the version of himself he watches meets the gaze of his own bodiless form, eyes piercing in the semi-darkness. They're a glimmering red._

_He waits, and waits, expecting the other him to say something, to do something, but he just stares, and stares, and stares._

_Then, slowly, like a poorly healed wound getting torn open stitch by stitch, the demon on the throne smiles, a glinting, too-sharp white._

_And he says, "Miss me?"_

Crowley woke with a scream lodged in his throat. He leaned over the side of the bed, sputtering, scrambling for air he wasn't used to needing. His head swam, the world spun, and _he couldn't get in enough air_–

Finally, he managed to suck in a few breaths, just enough to regain his senses. Still coughing, he collapsed back onto the bed, finding himself tangled in the sheets. He'd tied himself halfway into a straitjacket, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly claustrophobic. Flailing, he did everything he could to twist out of his makeshift prison, needing to move, needing to be free.

_Get free, need to smoke out, need to **get out**_–

He was halfway to ejecting himself from his meat suit when remembered.

There was no meat suit. There was no smoking out.

There was just him.

Crowley raised his hands, covered his eyes, and sobbed.


	28. What You See in the Shadows

**Chapter 28 – What You See in the Shadows**

* * *

Certain habits from the military stayed with Ronnie. How she made her bed, how she drank her coffee, and above all, her sleep schedule. No matter what, she was almost always up before seven. She hadn't been a morning person before her enlistment, but she seemed forever cursed to be one now.

That's why, even after getting home late into the night and barely having slept for days beforehand, she still woke up at half past six, getting a whopping four hours of rest. She thumped her head on her pillow when she saw the time, groaning loudly. She wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but as soon as the memories of all that had transpired the day before hit her, she knew that was a no-go.

She dragged herself out of the warm (albeit a bit dusty) confines of her bed. She was not ready to face today. Not ready to face the King of Hell waiting for her in the room across the hall. Not ready for her family, who was going to want answers that she couldn't give. She wasn't even sure she was ready to go back to anything even close to normal, after the past few weeks of living in Crowley's world, debatably the _real _world.

But she had to. There wasn't any turning back from it. No hiding from it.

She rose to her feet.

Once changed into jeans and a t-shirt from her days at Georgetown, she exited out into the hallway. She was surprised when she heard the sound of the TV from the living room. Crowley was already up? Given how much he'd slept on the ride back to DC, she thought he'd be out for ten hours, bare minimum... but it seemed he'd beaten her to starting the day.

Emerging into the main room, Ronnie was greeted with a strange sight. Mainly, a former demon sitting on her couch, wearing one of her bath robes (a bright, fuzzy pink one, might she add) his feet up on her coffee table, digging into a pint of chocolate ice cream and by all appearances watching _Oprah_ reruns.

"Um. Good morning."

Crowley glanced over his shoulder at her. "Morning." The underneath of his eyes were shadowed. He seemed exhausted.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked directly.

Crowley shrugged. "Few hours."

She didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"I see you found the one edible thing left in my apartment other than ramen."

He offered her a spoon. "Want some?"

"Not at six-thirty in the morning. Also, _Oprah_? I didn't peg you as the type."

"Ah, well. _Vanderpump Rules_ doesn't start until nine."

She honestly didn't know whether this was Crowley's way of coping with his new species, or if this was just a normal day off for him. "Pink is a good color on you," she offered.

"Mmm. Brings out my eyes, doesn't it? My suit is in the dryer. I needed something to wear."

"Not a fan of the jeans?"

"I hate denim. Makes me chafe."

"Uh-huh."

She wasn't sure Crowley's suit was strictly salvageable, but she decided not to tell him so. Maybe he needed something familiar. Maybe he needed to feel like himself for awhile, even if he wasn't strictly capable of _being himself _anymore.

Crowley didn't appear to feel particularly awkward in their current situation, but she definitely did. Even after seeing flashes of him in her mind for the past month, seeing him submit to his blood addiction, watching as he was forcibly turned human, the breakdown of demon to man...

It didn't change the fact that she'd only known him for a few weeks, and he'd more or less been the guy who would occasionally drop in on her, give her a supernatural history lesson, crack wise, then take her visions and go. They'd been through much in their short time knowing each other, but how well did she really _know_ him? Or vice versa?

_You have to know someone to know how to help them._

Brushing aside that thought, she tried to focus on what she could do today. One step forward. That was all she needed. "That actually reminds me. We should probably go clothes shopping for you, unless you just want to rewear your old suit forever. I have to go out and get groceries anyway, so..." She let the offer hang.

"You seem to forget that Moose pick-pocketed me."

"I can cover you."

His eyes flicked to her, an eyebrow raising, somewhere between condescension and amusement. "Love, with all due respect... I don't think you can afford my brands."

Ronnie raised her hands in a helpless gesture. "Sorry, your Highness. The Chaplain Corps doesn't pay as well as Hell does."

"Hell didn't line my pockets. _I_ lined my pockets." Crowley smirked, but it rang hollow. "I'll deal with my financial situation. I've got accounts with damn near every bank in the country, under different pseudonyms. I should at the very least be able to get convenience checks until I can get a new bank card."

"Yes on shopping, then?"

"Oh, why not. But there is one tiny manner I have to attend to first." He reached into the pocket of Ronnie's bathrobe and pulled out a steak knife. "I have to go carve extensive Enochian warding into myself. Should only take a mo. And by a mo I mean roughly two hours. How precious are you over your towels, by the by?"

Ronnie stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

"Crowley, you're _human_. That means you don't have a ridiculously high pain threshold anymore, and it's a lot easier for you to bleed out. I am not going to call an ambulance here and try to explain why I have a grown man in a woman's bathrobe trying to carve a bunch of gibberish into his chest."

"Do you have another suggestion, then?" Crowley sat up straight, abandoning the ice cream pint on the coffee table. "Because as I see it, word is going to spread fast that the King is either dead, or human. If my enemies think I'm dead, all the better. However, if my... _condition_... becomes public knowledge, anyone who has ever had a score to settle with me is going to be at your door."

"Can't you just get the warding tattooed on you?" Ronnie offered. "I mean, you can draw it out, and then bring it to a tattoo artist. It'll still hurt, but it'll hurt a heck of a lot less, and there's a lot less margin for error."

"Are you joking?" Crowley scoffed. "Some teenage numbnuts with a kanji tattoo is _not_ touching me. Especially considering that this is now my one and only body."

"Well, I'm not letting you play pin cushion with that 'one and only body'. So it seems we're at an impasse."

Crowley scrutinized her. "Awfully bossy, aren't we?"

"I know a good tattoo artist," she offered. "My friend Dale went to him. No kanjis, I promise."

Crowley sighed deeply, seeming like he was at the very end of his already thin patience. "I'm not particularly accustomed to being told _no_, Veronica."

"Look, I'm not trying to**–**" She broke off, a sharp pain knifing into her temple.

"Not trying to what? Mother me? I certainly hope not, because trust me, darling, my experience with mothers hasn't been**–**"

Ronnie collapsed forward. She barely registered hands grabbing her arms before she slipped off the couch, just before being sucked headfirst into a vision.

* * *

A soaking wet Cas dumped the spell ingredients on the strategy room table, everything from Dead Sea salt to the ground up talons of a harpy, to the ever-illusive essence of Chernobog. Sam noticed that Cas had some new blood splattered on his trench coat and a nasty cut along the length of his jaw.

Overall, the angel seemed quite thoroughly _done._

Cas promptly spat out a lungful of sea water onto the ground, grimacing.

"So... rough night?" Sam ventured, half-amused.

Cas shook his head like a wet dog, showering Sam with droplets. "It pays to have a stockpile of supernatural ingredients all over the globe. It would also have paid to find out the locations of said stockpiles from Crowley before you let him go." Cas sighed heavily, wrapping his tie into a ball and squeezing several ounces of water out of it. "It required a lot of legwork, but here it is. We're ready to enter Magnus's lair."

"Alright. Let me divvy this up so we have the right amount of everything, then we'll get going. Magnus's place is about twenty miles east of Lawrence, in the middle of state game lands. If you get us to the general area I can probably lead us the rest of the way."

Cas nodded. "In the meantime, I'm going to get a shower."

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "You're back to full-blown angel. Can't you just use your mojo clean yourself up?"

"I could, but when I was human, I enjoyed the process of bathing. I find it relaxing," Cas told him. "I'll be done by the time you're ready."

Cas sloshed out of the room, leaving wet foot prints behind. Sam turned to the load of ingredients spilling out on top of the table.

Time to go to work.

* * *

"Um... Mr. Winchester? Sir?"

Dean looked up from his phone. "What?"

Kayce stood in front of the desk, a manila folder tucked under his arm. "You... you wanted me to find some sign of your brother and the two angels. Sam appears to be in the Men of Letters bunker at present, but I did hear word of the angel Castiel taking on a harpy in Belarus. I have some surveillance footage here, and eye witness accounts... if you're interested."

"Huh. You work pretty fast," Dean commented, closing out of Candy Crush and reaching out a hand for the folder. "Shouldn't he be dead by now, not up and going ten rounds with a**–** what was it? A harpy? What does that even**–**" He flipped through the pictures. "That is one ugly bitch."

"It appears Castiel won handily."

Castiel didn't seem to be winning in the pictures, but Dean took Kayce's word for it. "He looks fine. He must've gotten his Grace back, somehow."

"Would you like me to look into that as well?"

Dean shook his head, tossing the folder on the desk. "No. I don't really give a shit what hoops he went through to get back to normal. All I care about is that he is, and he's probably my best ticket to getting to Sam. Did you have him followed?"

"We tried, sir, but it's difficult. Very few demons can teleport at will, much less follow the subtle trail of an angel."

"Well, where the hell are the few demons that _can_?"

"Dead, mostly. There are a few Crossroads demons, but many went into hiding during Abaddon's coup, and to my knowledge, only one has resurfaced... and I use the term 'resurfaced' loosely."

"You gonna keep me in suspense?" Dean asked lowly, flicking his eyes up to Kayce.

Kayce swallowed, fiddling with the end of his pencil tie. "Bartimaeus. The King of the Crossroads once Crowley ascended to the throne. Allegedly, he met with Crowley shortly before his disappearance. Bartimaeus is, in terms of power, almost a match with Crowley. He would be useful in tracking Castiel."

Dean kicked his feet up on the desk, drawing out the First Blade. Kayce paled visibly at the sight of it. "Okay. Find him. Bring him to me. I just wanna talk." Talk being a relative term, Dean mused as he cleaned the edge of the First Blade off with a baby wipe.

"I'll do what I can."

"Better hope 'what you can' is enough, buddy boy." Dean's eyes flashed black. "Between you and me, I'm not the most patient guy."

Kayce nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Good. Get out of here."

The demon obediently scuttled out, leaving Dean to himself. He snatched up the discarded pages again, reading through with them with greater attention this time. If Castiel was taking on random harpies, he wasn't doing it for jollies. Chances were, there was something he was after... and he knew from flipping through the Letters' files over the past year and a half that plenty of spells required harpy bits and pieces.

So. What kind of spell was Cas trying to cast? Dean wished he could get into the Men of Letters bunker and see if he could figure out what Cas was after so he knew where the angel would be headed next... but if he could get into the bunker on his own, he wouldn't need Cas in the first place.

Theoretically, he could just lie in wait outside of the bunker. Sam would have to come out eventually. But if Cas was back at full-throttle, Sam would know better than to do that. He wouldn't be leaving the bunker using the front door anytime soon. No, it was gonna be angelic taxi from here on out.

In other words, if he wanted to get to Sam, he had to get to Cas first.

And oh, he'd get to him.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

"Sam, are you positive that you know the way?"

Sam held up one hand, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the other. "Just give me a second to get my bearings, okay? This looks familiar."

The two of them walked side by side down a rural highway, Sam's eyes scanning all around. When he'd originally been here with Dean and Crowley, it had been early spring. The grass had been dead and most of the trees barren. Everything was in lush, full bloom now.

It made things a little difficult. Especially since Crowley's directions back then had left something to be desired. The demon seemed to get a kick out of telling Dean to turn about three seconds before he needed to. Sam barely remembered how they'd reached the proper spot the first time around.

"Wait..." Sam's eyes narrowed. There was a pull off spot up ahead. "I think this might be it. That looks like where Dean parked the Impala last time."

He sped up, Cas right in step with him. "I recall Dean mentioning something about Abaddon keying his car shortly after you met Magnus," Cas commented.

"Oh yeah. She did. If anything made Dean hate Abaddon, it was that. When he saw the Enochian scratches she left behind, he looked like he was gonna cry. Or kill someone."

That someone would've been Crowley, if he hadn't grabbed the Blade and made a run for it the first chance he got.

The familiar wave of rage surged up at the thought of Crowley, but it receded relatively quickly. The demon had gotten his well-deserved comeuppance, and then some. The King of Hell was a thing of the past, and there was no point in having him take up any more room in his head.

They made their way to the pull-off spot. A quick glance through the trees, and he saw the foot path that the three of them had followed to the clearing where Magnus's stronghold was hidden, both invisible and intangible.

Honestly, given the fact that Dean was no doubt hunting him down, he was considering looking into as much of Magnus's research as possible. Anything to make the bunker more secure and keep himself, Cas, and Gadreel from ending up on the wrong end of the First Blade.

"Come on. It's through here."

They wove their way down the overgrown path. Other than Cas's trench coat occasionally getting caught by a pricker bush and the stifling heat making Sam's t-shirt stick to his skin, they didn't run into any issues. He knew the clearing when he saw it. He put an arm to bar Cas from moving forward.

"This is it."

Cas's brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I can't sense anything here."

"That's not surprising. Crowley couldn't pick up anything either. Magnus... Cuthbert Sinclair, whatever... he was the Master of Spells from the second he was initiated into the Men of Letters. The guy was a complete creep, but he still was one hell of a witch. He warded this place to the nines."

He sank down to his knees in the dirt, shimmying the duffel bag off of his shoulder and letting it hit the ground with a dull _thud_. "Alright. Let's do this."

In the proper amounts at the proper time, the ingredients went into the steel bowl Sam had brought with him. After a few stirs, the concoction was ready to go, smelling "eerily of lavender" just as the instructions in Magnus's notes stated.

Sam looked up at Cas. "Before we say the magic words, you might want to go get Gadreel."

"Why?"

"I don't know just how much Dean told you about our last trip to Magnus's house, but it wasn't pretty. He's got a zoo, Cas. A zoo of everything that goes bump in the night. We saw shifters and vamps. God knows what else he's keeping in there... and given that their master's long-dead, I wouldn't be surprised if some of his pets have gotten loose."

Cas seemed to see the wisdom in his words. "I'll contact him immediately." Cas's eyes glazed over. Sam assumed he was speaking to Gadreel over angel radio.

"Hello."

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice just a breath behind him. He whirled around, and Gadreel stood barely a foot away from him.

Gadreel seem perplexed by his response. "Are you alright, Sam?"

"I'm fine, just..." Sam took a step back. "Personal space, okay?"

"My apologies."

Sam merely sighed and turned back to Cas. "For better or for worse, here we go."

Sam lifted the bowl off of the ground, taking a deep breath as he recalled the Latin words that would ignite the spell: _"Ingressum domi dona mihi."_

A few seconds slipped by, leaving them all tense and waiting, but soon enough, the mixture in the bowl exploded into brilliant yellow flames. Sam felt wind rushing around him, and a moment later, the wispy white portal that led into Magnus's lair came into being before them.

Sam tossed the bowl to the side. "I don't know how big our window is. Let's go."

Together, the three of them stepped forward, allowing the portal to swallow them whole.


	29. On the Shoulders of Giants

**Chapter 29 – On the Shoulders of Giants**

* * *

The first thing Cas registered was the smell. The dank, rotting odor of death. The way a battlefield reeked after war, only penned into a remarkably small space. In this case, a long, winding hallway. One sconce flickered halfway across its length, the only source of light that he could see. It was just enough to illuminate the blood stained walls, marked up with rusty brown and crimson.

Ragged claw marks scored through both sides of the hall, just a few feet ahead of them. As if some massive beast had used the walls to brace itself.

Bodies littered the floor, scattered here and there in different twisted positions.

Worse yet, Cas could sense angel warding present in the compound. Not enough to keep him out; no, that had likely been tied directly to Magnus's life force. But the dampening sigils were still in place. A brief meeting of the eyes with Gadreel confirmed that he felt himself weakening as well.

"I may be stating the obvious here, but I have a bad feeling about this," Cas said, taking a tentative step forward.

Sam's face was grim in the half-light of the hallway. "It's probably been a free-for-all in here since Magnus died," the hunter guessed. "Hopefully his pets have all killed each other off by now."

As if on cue, a roar sounded from deep within the compound, shaking the very foundation.

"Or not." Sam grimaced. "Come on. I know how to get to Magnus's main sitting room from here. There's a lot of weapons in there, so at the very least it'll give us a one-up on whatever we run into."

"Do you think the Horsemen Rings are being kept there as well?"

"I didn't see them last time, but maybe we'll be able to find something there that can lead us to where he kept them. I'd bet my life he's got a vault somewhere in this place where he holds the most valuable stuff he's collected," Sam reasoned.

With that, Sam began leading them down the hallway. Castiel and Gadreel followed at his heels, both angels on high alert.

* * *

"Veronica!"

The prophet was dead still in his arms. For a moment, he feared the worst. He laid her down on the couch, two fingers going to her pulse while his ear hovered over her mouth... there. The ghost of breath. And he could feel a faint pulse underneath his fingertips.

"What is this?" He could see her eyes moving rapidly under their lids. Was she having a vision? But he'd never seen her faint mid-sentence before... her visions usually came in the form of dreams she had at night, didn't they?

Unsure of what to do, Crowley scooped up Veronica in his arms.

He stumbled initially. He expected her to be light as a feather, but he forgot himself yet again. No more super strength. Bugger all.

Steeling himself, he still managed to carry Veronica to her room. He settled her down in her bed, then slid a pillow under her head. Under normal circumstances, there were a million things he could've done to find out precisely what was amiss with Veronica, but those normal circumstances had vanished the second Sam Winchester's blood had touched his lips.

Yet another reminder that he was human. Useless. Powerless.

"Veronica?"

Nothing. _Damn it._

He left her room, intending to get a bit of water to splash on her face, perhaps return her to the world of the living.

Crowley jumped when a knock came at the apartment's front door. Like a deer in headlights, he stared. Scenarios flooded through his mind, the worst of which was undoubtedly that one of his enemies had already discovered his condition and had found him, surely to eliminate him now that he had little capability to fight back.

Apparently not answering the door didn't discourage the knocker. The door opened.

Crowley tensed, already bracing himself for a fight.

A man stepped into the apartment. After a moment, Crowley recognized him from both the files that Kayce had assembled on Veronica prior to his abduction of her, and the pictures scattered around the Chaplain's apartment. It was Matt, her younger brother. Twenty four. Student at Georgetown. Computer science major. He had Veronica's hair and eyes, the round shape of her face, but he had a broader build and sharper nose.

"Who the hell are you?" Matt demanded the moment he settled his eyes on Crowley.

Crowley did a quick mental inventory of how bad this must look; a complete stranger in his missing sister's apartment.

The bathrobe didn't help matters, either.

"I'm a friend," Crowley said, raising a hand. Demon or not, he could still bullshit with the best of them. "I needed a place to stay while I'm in DC. Veronica offered."

"Ronnie's been gone for weeks!" Matt snapped, stalking towards him. "You expect me to believe she's just letting you stay in here alone? She hasn't talked to anyone since she ran off."

He pulled something out of his pocket; Veronica's phone, the one Crowley had forced her to leave behind when he'd originally kidnapped her.

"Your sister's back," Crowley replied. Hopefully sharing that tidbit would keep Matt from calling the police, at least.

"I know." He saw a brief shade of relief cross the boy's face in spite of his words. He hadn't been sure that Veronica really had returned, then. "Her neighbor across the hall said he heard voices coming from here. Where is she?"

"Asleep. And not feeling well, so if you'd be so kind as to lower the volume..."

"She's been missing for three weeks!" Matt cut across him. "Is she in her room?" He made to head to Veronica's bedroom, but Crowley stepped in front of him.

"I _said_, she's not feeling well. And from what I understand, she didn't go missing. She took a break."

"Ronnie wouldn't just _take a break_ from her friends and her family. I know my sister. Something happened." Matt narrowed his eyes at Crowley. "You still haven't told me who you are."

"Name's Crowley. Satisfied?"

"No. Get out of my way."

Crowley didn't budge. "She's been through a lot."

"You think I don't know that?" Matt demanded. "She's my sister! Who are you to her? Some fling? You don't have any right to stop me from seeing her."

"Matt?"

Crowley turned in a half circle. Veronica emerged from her room, rubbing her eyes and stumbling slightly. He couldn't fault her timing; a moment more, and he would've had to knock out her dearest brother. He was quite sure that wouldn't have been received well by Veronica.

"Ronnie!"

Crowley finally allowed Matt to pass, and he bee-lined to his sister, bringing her into a crushing embrace.

"Hey kiddo," Veronica replied groggily, hugging him back just as tightly and ruffling the back of his hair. "I missed you."

"Where have you _been?_" he asked, pulling away from her minutely so he could look her in the eye.

"It's... uh, kind of a long story..."

* * *

"I think it's just around the next corner... yeah. Here it is."

The three of them entered into Magnus's once-opulent sitting room. It had, like the rest of Magnus's sprawling invisible stronghold, fallen into a chronic state of disrepair. But, thankfully, most of the artifacts he had on display remained untouched. Likely because most of the monsters in the place had gone mad once released from Magnus's mind-binding spells, and had no idea the power of much of their master's collection.

All they'd known was him for so long, that once he was gone, everything just... crumbled.

And Dean had been under that spell.

It made Sam's skin crawl just thinking about it.

_But now he's under an even worse spell..._

No. He couldn't think about that. Not now. Not when there was something right in front of him that he could actually change.

Gadreel and Cas both looked around with mixed expressions of wonder and disgust. "I find it difficult to believe one human managed to attain all of this," Gadreel said, walking up to a sword rack littered with no doubt priceless weapons.

Cas shook his head in a subtle kind of disgust. "No one man should have all this power."

"I suppose we should be grateful he didn't do anything with it," Sam said, pacing to the long-dead fireplace, trying to stay steady as another roar-tremor combo rocked the room around them. "He just sat on his collection and patted himself on the back. If he'd ever decided to mobilize his monster army and use half of this stuff... it would've been a nightmare."

"To be truthful," Gadreel said, eyeing the corpse of what was once Magnus, before he'd been beheaded, and subsequently picked apart and eaten by the tenants of his zoo, "I would say we are in the midst of the nightmare as we speak."

"You're not wrong," Sam conceded. He began searching the room meticulously, in hopes of finding something that might lead to where Magnus had stashed the Horsemen Rings. He had to have a vault of some variety, the trick was in finding it.

Gadreel and Cas both fanned out, hunting through the room as well. Cas seemed to be enraged at what he was finding. It became rapidly evident that Magnus had pilfered some of history's greatest artifacts, which seemed to fundamentally bother Cas.

"King Arthur's dagger...? How did he even get this?"

"To think that the helm of Rostam fell into _his _hands..."

"We really should take as much of this with us as we can," Sam interrupted Cas's mutterings after a few minutes of fruitlessly poking around. "Throwing more into the bunker armory can't do any harm."

Both angels nodded, and set about collecting various implements from off of Magnus's walls and shelves. Gadreel drove his elbow into a display case, shattering it. He then collected the wicked sharp, emerald-studded scimitar from within.

Meanwhile, Sam continued looking for some clue as to where Magnus's most valuable possessions were. Finally, he saw the edge of a leather bound notebook sticking out of the crack of one of Magnus's armchairs. Sam leaned down, snatching up the book. It was a bit dusty, but in otherwise fine condition.

"I think I might've found something," Sam called. He opened up the journal. The initials C. S. were printed on the inside cover. Cuthbert Sinclair. _Okay... _He opened up to the first page and began flipping through.

"What is it?" Cas asked, arriving at his side.

"It looks like... inventory?" Sam flipped through the first couple of pages, the two angels hovering on either side of him. "Yeah. It's a ledger. Lists everything he has, what he paid for it or how he got it, any special properties it has, and most importantly..." Sam grinned, closing the book and lifting it up victoriously. "Where he has it stored."

"Let me see that." Cas took the ledger from him. The angel flipped through the pages quickly.

"Can angels speed-read?" Sam couldn't pretend he wasn't hoping the answer would be yes. That would help matters significantly.

"Yes," Gadreel and Cas chorused.

"Awesome."

After rapidly flipping through the ledger, Cas snapped it shut. "Magnus describes three vaults; one in the north wing, one in the south wing, and one in the east wing. It appears that the highest security one is in the north wing. That's where he's keeping the Horsemen Rings."

"Great. Let's head there."

Cas gave a quick shake of his head. "There's a problem."

"What?"

As if on cue, the roar sounded in the distance once more, and the complex trembled around them. "I... believe I know what that is." Cas flipped open to a page, then pressed the ledger down on one of the end tables. Cas indicated a particular entry with his finger. Gadreel and Sam leaned over his shoulder so they could read.

_Item #2166_

_Title: Shamshir-e-Zomorrodnegar _(شمشیر زمردنگار)

_Method of Procurement: Purchased from Prince Fayyad El-Hashem for 2.5million._

_Location: Showroom_

_Additional Notes: Thought it prudent to get my hands on this one, should Fulad-zereh ever decide to bite the hand that feeds him._

"Fulad-zereh," Gadreel read. "What is that?"

Sam sighed. "I think you would've been in Heaven's Prison at the time... it's a giant from some old Persian epic. Right?" He looked to Cas for confirmation.

"Yes. Fulad-zereh, contrary to popular belief, wasn't actually a demon, as he was described in _Amir Arsalan_. He was actually a witch's experiment gone horribly wrong, a human turned into an enormous horned, winged beast."

The ground shook once more, followed by a roar.

"That sounds as if it's coming from the north," Gadreel said with a frown.

"So, we have to get through a giant to get to the vault." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Great."

"Luckily, we are armed with the only thing that can kill Fulad-zereh." Castiel turned around, gesturing at the scimitar dangling from one of Gadreel's belt loops. "If I'm not mistaken, that's Shamshir. A weapon of King Solomon's, granted to him by the angels."

"So that'll kill it?"

"Yes," Cas answered slowly. "The only issue, I think, is that Fulad-zereh is nearly four stories tall and impossibly strong. Getting an opening will prove difficult."

"I guess just running between its legs isn't an option?" Sam sighed. "Alright. Let's finish gathering everything up from here, then we'll start heading towards the big, scary monster."

* * *

Crowley made a mental note not to so readily trust the good Chaplain's seemingly honest face. She was certainly capable of lying, even adept at it, if the story she told her brother was any indication. It was awfully convincing for a complete falsehood about "needing to cut herself off" and "wanting to travel on her own."

Then again, the truth would've seemed far more ridiculous.

"You can't do this again," Matt eventually said, voice hoarse with emotion. "Mom and Dad were freaking out, Ronnie."

"Look, Matt, I'm sorry. It was stupid of me. I just felt like I needed to be alone, after... after everything."

Matt's eyes unmistakably went to the framed picture of Veronica's unit on the mantel. "We're here for you. You don't need to run from what happened. You can always talk to me. And– and if that doesn't work, Lieutenant Grady did say any grief counseling would be free, if you wanted it–"

"I'm okay," Veronica quickly cut across him. "Having these past few weeks off has been good for me. My head feels a lot clearer."

Matt still seemed troubled. "Does that mean this is going to become a habit?"

"No, no way, I promise. It wasn't fair to you guys. It won't happen again," Veronica swore up and down.

Matt breathed a sigh of relief. "That's what I really wanted to hear," he admitted. "But, uh... one more thing..." Matt glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, who was seated on the couch, flipping through the channels and pretending not to eavesdrop.

"You're wondering what the deal is with him?" Veronica guessed.

"Well, yeah. He's a little old for you, don't you think?"

Heh. If only he knew that it wasn't a twenty year age difference, but a three hundred and thirty seven year one.

"Oh jeez, Matt, it's not like that! He's my friend."

"Then what's the story with him?"

Crowley cleared his throat. "The story," he spoke up, "is that Veronica and I met while she was on liberty in London. I work for Interpol. I was on a case, had some down time, and we just happened to both be nursing depressingly virgin drinks at the same bar, at the same time, bored out of our bloody minds. We hit it off right away."

"We've been friends ever since," Veronica tacked on helpfully.

"And you're staying here... why, exactly?" Matt pressed.

"I've been transferred to the DC field office. Veronica said I could stay here until I'd finished house hunting."

Matt still didn't seem thrilled, but at least he accepted the story, happy with it or not. "Right. Well, the more power to you, I guess."

"Look, how about tomorrow night, we do family dinner? We'll go to that place in Georgetown that Mom likes."

Matt nodded, a hopeful smile touching his lips. "That sounds good. I'll let them know."

The siblings hugged and said their goodbyes. Both Crowley and Veronica relaxed significantly when the door closed behind Matt.

"That was fun," Crowley remarked.

"I hate lying to him." Veronica sank down next to him on the couch. "It makes me feel gross."

"It's not as if you have much choice in the matter. Telling him you were vacationing with the King of Hell certainly wouldn't have gone over well."

"Point." Veronica put her head in her hands, seeming quite thoroughly done. "And Interpol agent? You couldn't have gone with a more mundane cover?"

"Force of habit. It's one of my go-to aliases. Helps that there's a real, living Interpol agent who looks more or less identical to me."

Veronica lifted her head just enough to eye him suspiciously. "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not. But if anyone asks, my name's James Sterling."

"Matt thinks your name is Crowley."

"Cute nickname?" Crowley suggested. "Our mutual love for _Good Omens _binds us together?"

"_Good Omens_?" Veronica questioned.

Crowley just sighed. "Perhaps this is a problem better addressed later. After all, we have something a bit more dire to discuss – said dire subject being why you fainted earlier."

Veronica clasped her hands together, resting her chin atop them. "I don't really know. The vision... it just hit me so hard. Maybe because there was a lot of fear and adrenaline? I got sucked in so fast. Or maybe the time difference is just screwing with when I get my visions. I'm not sure."

"Don't dawdle, darling. What was it?" Crowley urged. True, he couldn't utilize Veronica's visions the way he once could, now that he had no powerbase to speak of and no real role in the everlasting supernatural chess game, but that didn't mean he wasn't curious as to what Team Ill Will was up to.

"It was bizarre... Sam, Cas, and Gadreel were fighting a giant." She looked at Crowley. "It was trapped inside a complex owned by some guy named Cuthbert Sinclair. Or Albert Magnus. I'm not sure which one is supposed to be his real name."

Ho-ho. So Moose and his pet angels had finally decided to dive headfirst into Cuthbert Sinclair's supernatural motherlode. And apparently, Cas was feeling well enough to tackle such a thing. Curious. Had he been healed?

"About time," Crowley commented, deciding he'd grill Veronica on Castiel's current state of still-aliveness later.

"What do you mean?"

"Cuthbert Sinclair was a visionary ahead of his time. When the Men of Letters kicked him out, he started building the most impressive collection of magical artifacts and creatures that the world's ever seen... or _not_ seen, rather. And since Dean sliced off Sinclair's head, the place is just sitting there, ripe for the taking."

"Why didn't you empty out the place?"

"Sinclair was a tricky one. Place was layered with enchantment after enchantment and filled with every nasty thing in Creation. I would've needed a militia of armed demons and curse-breakers to take the place for myself."

Veronica grimaced. "And the boys are trying to take it by themselves."

"Which will likely end in their timely demises." His only regret was that he would have to listen to Veronica recount the event to him, and he wouldn't be able to witness it himself. He had a song and dance routine planned out for Moose's death scene.

The prophet sighed deeply. "I just hope they know what they're getting themselves into."

* * *

"I'm not really sure what we're getting ourselves into here, but should we at least try to figure out which of us is going to try to kill the thing?" Sam asked as they neared the north wing, and Fulad-zereh.

Cas and Gadreel paused.

"Only one of us can wield the sword... who would be best suited?" Gadreel wondered aloud.

"Cas is the best swordsman of the three of us," Sam pointed out. "We should probably give it to him."

"That's flattering, Sam, but given the fact that the giant can't actually kill Gadreel or myself, it would probably be best if you take Shamshir, so you have some means to defend yourself. Especially considering that with the extent of the warding on this complex, I'm not sure we'll be able to heal you if you get extensively injured."

Gadreel nodded. "I concur." The angel passed the scimitar to Sam.

Sam swung the sword a few times, trying to get a feel for it. The blade was light and aerodynamic, while the hilt, laden with emeralds as it was, weighed significantly more. It would be tricky to use, but Sam hoped the adrenaline of fighting an ancient giant would make up for what skill he lacked.

"David and Goliath," Sam mused with a mirthless laugh. "Let's get this over with."

"It's not far," Cas said, taking point and leading them through a series of hallways. The creature's giant steps caused plaster to rain from the slowly crumbling ceiling. Finally, they were met with a collapsed wall that allowed them a glimpse into the next room over.

Sam peeked around the corner. He caught a glimpse of an expansive room with a high ceiling. Like an old school ballroom, complete with grand staircase.

Sam's view quickly became obscured by a massive, heavily armored leg. The three of them jumped back and away from the opening.

The giant roared, and now that they were so close, it sounded less like a formless bellow, and more like actual words. Not ones Sam could understand, but words nonetheless.

"Anyone know Persian?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"Something along the lines of breaking open our bones and sucking out the marrow," Cas shared.

"Oh, good. I was afraid it was something bad."

"I think we have lost the element of surprise. How should we proceed?" Gadreel asked.

Before Sam or Castiel could respond, a massive hole was ripped in the ceiling, through which they could see one huge, beady red eye.

That was when the plan simply became, **_"RUN!"_**

Gadreel and Sam tore off in one direction, while Cas sprinted the opposite way. The smashing hand continued on its path, ripping out a large majority of the ceiling and eventually causing the entire hallway to collapse in on itself. Gadreel and Sam were just barely able to stay ahead of the destruction.

They rounded the corner just in the nick of time. From there, they bolted straight for a pair of massive gold-embossed double doors. They shoved through, stumbling into the pseudo-ballroom.

And that's when Sam saw the terrifying entirety of what they were fighting.

Fulad-zereh stood almost forty feet tall, and was clad head to toe in steel armor. The only visible skin was on the giant's face. Thick and leathery, black as the void, a stark contrast to its blazing red eyes. Twisted ivory horns sprouted from its temples, and fangs extended down to touch its jaw-line. Worse yet, it was armed, wielding a long, jagged sword.

Never mind the wings. Luckily those were still bound with a series of enormous iron chains that were rooted into the ground of the ballroom, engraved with hundreds of runes that Sam could only faintly recognize as being ancient Arabic witchcraft.

He was so dumbstruck, that he nearly allowed the giant to cleave him in half with its twenty foot long sword. Gadreel tackled him down, barreling Sam off to the side just in the nick of time.

"How the hell are we supposed to fight that!?" Sam exclaimed.

"That is an excellent question," Gadreel said, dragging Sam back up to his feet. "Not getting killed would be a good first step."

That much he could agree on. Even at full speed, the two of them had a hard time keeping ahead of the giant, as it took up so much of the room. Sam didn't know where the hell Cas was, and he was stumped on how he was supposed to get close enough to stab Fulad-zereh without getting ripped apart in the process.

"He can't get both of us at once!" Gadreel yelled. "I'll distract him!"

"Is shouting our plan really a good idea!?"

"He can't understand English!" Cas's voice rang out from the grand staircase. Gadreel, Sam, and the giant all turned as one. Cas planted one foot on what remained of the railing and jettisoned off, clinging on to the front of the giant, wedging his shoes between the plates of his ancient armor.

"Or Cas will distract him," Sam said under his breath, running full tilt for Fulad-zereh. However, before he could get within stabbing distance of the monster, he threw Cas off with a roar. Cas flew through the air like a rag-doll, colliding into Sam and sending them both sprawling on the floor.

"This isn't going as well as I'd hoped," Cas admitted, pushing himself to stand.

The giant made to swing his sword.

"Duck," Sam warned.

"Where?"

"No, Cas, DUCK!" He grabbed the angel by the wrist and pulled him back down to the ground. Cas just narrowly avoided losing his head.

"You may not be able to die, but I don't want to have to carry Jimmy out of here in a bucket," Sam said.

"Understood."

They were both up and moving a second later. With a nod at Gadreel and Cas, the two angels split up. Cas headed for the opposite side of the ballroom, where three more sets of double doors waited, while Gadreel went for the staircase. Sam continued pelting through the center of the room.

Fulad-zereh decided on Cas as his target, probably still sore about the angel jumping on him moments before. He made to drive his blade down into the ground, but Cas threw himself forward into a roll. The sword buried itself deep in the marble floor. Cas leapt, catching the sword's cross-guard with just the tips of his fingers.

Sam saw his opening and raced for Castiel, veering off course. He jumped, grabbed the angel's hand. Cas was easily able to swing him up. Sam landed on top of the giant's hands, which were still trying to pry the sword out of the ground.

Sam drew Shamshir, made to jump and plunge it into a tiny space of exposed skin at the giant's neck–

The giant ripped the sword out of the marble, and Sam once again went flying, this time over the giant's head and through the air. The ground loomed thirty feet below, and Sam knew he wouldn't make it through the fall without some serious damage.

He managed to turn the scimitar around just in time to dig into the back of the giant's armor. A horrible screeching noise reverberated in the air as Sam skidded down Fulad-zereh's back, his descent slowed just enough that he could push off and land neatly on his feet, unharmed.

The giant bellowed in irritation, whipping around with surprising speed to swat at Sam. He got hit hard, flying a good ten feet before slamming into the floor and gaining another five feet of distance from that. Dazed, he was just barely able to push himself back up.

He couldn't see Castiel or Gadreel past the giant.

_This isn't working, _Sam thought dimly.

The giant swatted at him again, and Sam dodged, but not enough to avoid getting clipped. His back met the ground. He looked up, and a blur of steel was driving down towards him, and he knew it was too late to get out of the way–

His vision was suddenly obscured. By Gadreel.

Gadreel, who was overtop of him, arms out straight and rigid and planted on either side of Sam's head.

Blood dripped from Gadreel's mouth.

The last three feet of the sword had pierced his chest.


End file.
